r 


THfi 

OF 
LOS  ANGELES 


'MADEMOISELLE    NEED   GIVE   HERSELF   NO   UNKASINESS 


THE    FRONT    YARD 

AND 
OTHER  ITALIAN   STORIES 


BY 

COXSTAXCE  FEXIMORE  WOOLSON 
AUTHOR  OF   "ANNE"   "HORACE   CHASE"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
1895 


Copyright,  1895,  by  HARPEK  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


NOTE 

OF  the  stories  contained  in  this  volume,  "In  Venice1' 
was  originally  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  "The 
Street  of  the  Hyacinth"  in  the  Century  Magazine,  and  the 
other  four  stories  in  Harper's  Magazine. 


1711387 


CONTENTS 


THE  FRONT  YARD J 

NEPTUNE'S  SHORE 50 

A  PINK  VILLA 91 

THE  STREET  OF  THE  HYACINTH 137 

A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY 194 

IN  VENICE 334 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  '  MADEMOISELLE     NEED     GIVE     HKRSELF      NO      UNEASI- 
NESS ' " Frontispiece 

" '  'TWOULD  BE  SOMETHING  TO   CELEBRATE   THE   DAY 

WITH,  THAT  WOULD'" Facing  p.     2 

"  NOUNCE  TOO  CAME  OUT,  AND  SAT  ON  THE  WALL  NEAR 

BY,  LISTENING " "         22 

"STILL  HOLDING  NOUNCE'S  HAND,  SHE  WENT  ROUND  TO 

THE  FRONT  OF  THE  HOUSE" "         42 

'"YOU  KNOW  I  AM  YOUU  SLATE*" "         58 

AZUBAII  ASH "         68 

THE  OLD  WATCH-TOWER "         86 

"THE  CART  WAS  GOING  SLOWLY  ACROSS  THE  FIELDS, 

FOR  THE  ROAD  WAS  OVERFLOWED  " "         88 

"  '  MRS.  CHURCHILL,  LET  ME  PRESENT  TO  YOU  MR.  DAVID 

ROD '" "  100 

SORRENTO '.     .  "  102 

ON  THE  WAY  TO  THE  DESKRTO "  112 

AT  THE  DESERTO "  114 

"  SHE  SAT  DOWN   AND  GATHERED  HER  CHILD  TO  HER 

BREAST" "  128 

"FANNY  PUT  OUT  HER  HANDS  WITH  A  BITTER  CRY"  .  "  134 
"A  SMALL  CHILD  PERCHED  ON  EACH  OF  HIS  SHOUL- 
DERS"      .  "  214 


THE  FRONT  YARD 

• 

"  WELL,  now,  with  Gooster  at  work  in  the  per-dairy, 
and  Bepper  settled  at  last  as  help  in  a  good  family,  and 
Parlo  and  Squaw ly  gone  to  Perugia,  and  Soonter  taken 
by  the  nuns,  and  Jo  Yanny  learning  the  carpenter's 
trade,  and  only  Nounce  left  for  me  to  see  to  (let  alone 
Granmar,  of  course,  and  Pipper  and  old  Patro),  it  doos 
seem,  it  really  doos,  as  if  I  might  get  it  done  sometime  ; 
say  next  Fourth  of  July,  now  ;  that's  only  ten  months 
off.  'Twould  be  something  to  celebrate  the  day  with, 
that  would  ;  something  like  !" 

The  woman  through  whose  mind  these  thoughts 
were  passing  was  sitting  on  a  low  stone-wall,  a  bun- 
dle of  herbs,  a  fagot  of  twigs,  and  a  sickle  laid  care- 
fully beside  her.  On  her  back  was  strapped  a  large 
deep  basket,  almost  as  long  as  herself ;  she  had  loos- 
ened the  straps  so  that  she  could  sit  down.  This  bas- 
ket was  heavy  ;  one  could  tell  that  from  the  relaxed 
droop  of  her  shoulders  relieved  from  its  weight  for  the 
moment,  as  its  end  rested  on  a  fallen  block  on  the  oth- 
er side  of  the  wall.  Her  feet  were  bare,  her  dress  a 
narrow  cotton  gown,  covered  in  front  to  the  hem  by  a 
dark  cotton  apron ;  on  her  head  was  a  straw  bonnet, 
which  had  behind  a  little  cape  of  brown  ribbon  three 
inches  deep,  and  in  front  broad  strings  of  the  same 
brown,  carefully  tied  in  a  bow,  with  the  loops  pulled 


2  THE    FKONT    YARD 

out  to  their  full  width  and  pinned  on  each  side  of  her 
chin.  This  bonnet,  very  clean  and  decent  (the  ribbons 
had  evidently  been  washed  more  than  once),  was  of 
old-fashioned  shape,  projecting  beyond  the  wearer's 
forehead  and  cheeks.  Within  its  tube  her  face  could 
be  seen,  with  its  deeply  browned  skin,  its  large  irregu- 
lar features,  smooth,  thin  white  hair,  and  blue  eyes, 
still  bright,  set  amid  a  bed  of  wrinkles.  She  was  sixty 
years  old,  tall  and  broad-shouldered.  She  had  once 
been  remarkably  erect  and  strong.  This  strength  had 
been  consumed  more  by  constant  toil  than  by  the  ap- 
proach of  old  age ;  it  was  not  all  gone  yet ;  the  great 
basket  showed  that.  In  addition,  her  eyes  spoke  a  lan- 
guage which  told  of  energy  that  would  last  as  long  as 
her  breath. 

These  eyes  were  fixed  now  upon  a  low  building  that 
stood  at  a  little  distance  directly  across  the  path.  It 
was  small  and  ancient,  built  of  stone,  with  a  sloping 
roof  and  black  door.  There  were  no  windows ;  through 
this  door  entered  the  only  light  and  air.  Outside  were 
two  large  heaps  of  refuse,  one  of  which  had  been  there 
so  long  that  thick  matted  herbage  was  growing  vigor- 
ously over  its  top.  Bars  guarded  the  entrance  ;  it  was 
impossible  to  see  what  was  within.  But  the  woman 
knew  without  seeing  ;  she  always  knew.  It  had  been 
a  cow  ;  it  had  been  goats ;  it  had  been  pigs,  and  then 
goats  again ;  for  the  past  two  years  it  had  been  pigs 
steadily — always  pigs.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  this 
door  as  if  held  there  by  a  magnet ;  her  mouth  fell  open 
a  little  as  she  gazed ;  her  hands  lay  loose  in  her  lap. 
There  was  nothing  new  in  the  picture,  certainly.  But 
the  intensity  of  her  feeling  made  it  in  one  way  always 
new.  If  love  wakes  freshly  every  morning,  so  does 


'  'TWOULD   BE    SOMETHING   TO    CELEBRATE   THE    DAT   WITH,  THAT 
WOULD ' " 


THE    FRONT    YARD  3 

hate,  and  Prudence  Wilkin  had  hated  that  cow-shed 
for  years. 

The  bells  down  in  the  town  began  to  ring  the  An- 
gelas. She  woke  from  her  reverie,  rebuckled  the  straps 
of  the  basket,  and  adjusting  it  by  a  jerk  of  her  shoul- 
ders in  its  place  on  her  back,  she  took  the  fagot  in  one 
hand,  the  bundle  of  herbs  in  the  other,  and  carrying 
the  sickle  under  her  arm,  toiled  slowly  up  the  ascent, 
going  round  the  cow-shed,  as  the  interrupted  path  too 
went  round  it,  in  an  unpaved,  provisional  sort  of  way 
(which  had,  however,  lasted  fifty  years),  and  giving  a 
wave  of  her  herbs  towards  the  offending  black  door  as 
she  passed  —  a  gesture  that  was  almost  triumphant. 
"Jest  you  wait  till  next  Fourth  of  July,  you  indecent 
old  Antiquity,  you  !"  This  is  what  she  was  thinking. 

Prudence  Wilkin's  idea  of  Antiquity  was  everything 
that  was  old  and  dirty;  indecent  Antiquity  meant  the 
same  qualities  increased  to  a  degree  that  was  monstrous, 
a  degree  that  the  most  profligate  imagination  of  Led- 
hara  (New  Hampshire)  would  never  have  been  able  to 
conceive.  There  was  naturally  a  good  deal  of  this  sort 
of  Antiquity  in  Assisi,  her  present  abode ;  it  was  all 
she  saw  when  she  descended  to  that  picturesque  town ; 
the  great  triple  church  of  St.  Francis  she  never  entered  ; 
the  magnificent  view  of  the  valley,  the  serene  vast  Um- 
brian  plain,  she  never  noticed  ;  but  the  steep,  narrow 
streets,  with  garbage  here  and  there,  the  crowding 
stone  houses,  centuries  old,  from  whose  court -yard 
doors  issued  odors  indescribable — these  she  knew  well, 
and  detested  with  all  her  soul.  Her  deepest  degree  of 
loathing,  however,  was  reserved  for  the  especial  An- 
tiquity that  blocked  her  own  front  path,  that  elbowed 
her  own  front  door,  this  noisome  stable  or  sty — for  it 


4  THE    FKONT   YARD 

was  now  one,  now  the  other — which  she  had  hated  and 
abhorred  for  sixteen  long  years. 

For  it  was  just  sixteen  years  ago  this  month  since 
she  had  first  entered  the  hill  town  of  St.  Francis.  She 
had  not  entered  it  alone,  but  in  the  company  of  a  hand- 
some bridegroom,  Antonio  Guadagni  by  name,  and  so 
happy  was  she  that  everything  had  seemed  to  her  en- 
chanting— these  same  steep  streets  with  their  ancient 
dwellings,  the  same  dirt,  the  same  yellowness,  the  same 
continuous  leisure  and  causeless  beatitude.  And  when 
her  Tonio  took  her  through  the  town  and  up  this  sec- 
ond ascent  to  the  squalid  little  house,  where,  staring 
and  laughing  and  crowding  nearer  to  look  at  her,  she 
found  his  family  assembled,  innumerable  children  (they 
seemed  innumerable  then),  a  bedridden  grandam,  a  dis- 
reputable old  uncle  (who  began  to  compliment  her), 
even  this  did  not  appear  a  burden,  though  of  course  it 
was  a  surprise.  For  Tonio  had  told  her,  sadly,  that  he 
was  "  all  alone  in  the  world."  It  had  been  one  of  the 
reasons  why  she  had  wished  to  marry  him — that  she 
might  make  a  home  for  so  desolate  a  man. 

The  home  was  already  made,  and  it  was  somewhat 
full.  Desolate  Tonio  explained,  with  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter, in  which  all  the  assemblage  joined,  that  seven  of 
the  children  were  his,  the  eighth  being  an  orphan  neph- 
ew left  to  his  care ;  his  wife  had  died  eight  months  be- 
fore, and  this  was  her  grandmother — on  the  bed  there ; 
this  her  good  old  uncle,  a  very  accomplished  man,  who 
had  written  sonnets.  Mrs.  Guadagni  number  two  had 
excellent  powers  of  vision,  but  she  was  never  able  to 
discover  the  goodness  of  this  accomplished  uncle  ;  it 
was  a  quality  which,  like  the  beneficence  of  angels,  one 
is  obliged  to  take  on  trust. 


THE    FRONT    YARD  5 

She  was  forty-five,  a  New  England  woman,  with  some 
small  savings,  who  had  come  to  Italy  as  companion  and 
attendant  to  a  distant  cousin,  an  invalid  with  money. 
The  cousin  had  died  suddenly  at  Perugia,  and  Prudence 
had  allowed  the  chance  of  returning  to  Ledham  with 
her  effects  to  pass  by  unnoticed — a  remarkable  lapse 
of  the  quality  of  which  her  first  name  was  the  expo- 
nent, regarding  which  her  whole  life  hitherto  had  been 
one  sharply  outlined  example.  This  lapse  was  due  to 
her  having  already  become  the  captive  of  this  hand- 
some, this  irresistible,  this  wholly  unexpected  Tonio, 
who  was  serving  as  waiter  in  the  Perugian  inn.  Di- 
vining her  savings,  and  seeing  with  his  own  eyes  her 
wonderful  strength  and  energy,  this  good-natured  rep- 
robate had  made  love  to  her  a  little  in  the  facile  Italian 
way,  and  the  poor  plain  simple  -  hearted  spinster,  to 
whom  no  one  had  ever  spoken  a  word  of  gallantry  in 
all  her  life  before,  had  been  completely  swept  off  her 
balance  by  the  novelty  of  it,  and  by  the  thronging  new 
sensations  which  his  few  English  words,  his  speaking 
dark  eyes,  and  ardent  entreaties  roused  in  her  maiden 
breast.  It  was  her  one  moment  of  madness  (who  has 
not  had  one  ?).  She  married  him,  marvelling  a  little 
inwardly  when  he  required  her  to  walk  to  Assisi,  but 
content  to  walk  to  China  if  that  should  be  his  pleas- 
ure. When  she  reached  the  squalid  house  on  the 
height  and  saw  its  crowd  of  occupants,  when  her  own 
money  was  demanded  to  send  down  to  Assisi  to  pur- 
chase the  wedding  dinner,  then  she  understood — why 
they  had  walked. 

But  she  never  understood  anything  else.  She  never 
permitted  herself  to  understand.  Tonio,  plump  and 
idle,  enjoyed  a  year  of  paradisiacal  opulence  under  her 


6  THK    FRONT    YARD 

ministrations  (and  in  spite  of  some  of  them)  ;  he  was 
eighteen  years  younger  than  she  was  ;  it  was  natural 
that  he  should  wish  to  enjoy  on  a  larger  scale  than 
hers — so  he  tcld  her.  At  the  end  of  twelve  months  a 
fever  carried  him  off,  and  his  widow,  who  mourned  for 
him  with  all  her  heart,  was  left  to  face  the  world  with 
the  eight  children,  the  grandmother,  the  good  old  un- 
cle, and  whatever  courage  she  was  able  to  muster  after 
counting  over  and  over  the  eighty -five  dollars  that 
alone  remained  to  her  of  the  six  hundred  she  had 
brought  him. 

Of  course  she  could  have  gone  back  to  her  own 
country.  But  that  idea  never  once  occurred  to  her; 
she  had  married  Tonio  for  better  or  worse ;  she  could 
not  in  honor  desert  the  worst  now  that  it  had  come. 
It  had  come  in  force  ;  on  the  very  day  of  the  funeral 
she  had  been  obliged  to  work  eight  hours ;  on  every 
day  that  had  followed  through  all  these  years,  the 
hours  had  been  on  an  average  fourteen  ;  sometimes 
more. 

Bent  under  her  basket,  the  widow  now  arrived  at 
the  back  door  of  her  home.  It  was  a  small  narrow 
house,  built  of  rough  stones  plastered  over  and  painted 
bright  yellow.  But  though  thus  gay  without,  it  was 
dark  within  ;  the  few  windows  were  very  small,  and 
their  four  little  panes  of  thick  glass  were  covered  with 
an  iron  grating ;  there  was  no  elevation  above  the 
ground,  the  brick  floor  inside  being  of  the  same  level 
as  the  flagging  of  the  path  without,  so  that  there  was 
always  a  sense  of  groping  when  one  entered  the  low 
door.  There  were  but  four  rooms,  the  kitchen,  with  a 
bedroom  opening  from  it,  and  two  chambers  above  un- 
der the  sloping  roof. 


THE    FRONT   YARD  7 

Prudence  unstrapped  her  basket  and  placed  it  in  a 
wood-shed  which  she  had  constructed  with  her  own 
hands.  For  she  could  not  comprehend  a  house  without 
a  wood-shed  ;  she  called  it  a  wood-shed,  though  there 
was  very  little  wood  to  put  in  it :  in  Assisi  no  one 
made  a  fire  for  warmth ;  for  cooking  they  burned 
twigs.  She  hung  up  the  fagot  (it  was  a  fagot  of 
twigs),  the  herbs,  and  the  sickle  ;  then,  after  giving 
her  narrow  skirts  a  shake,  she  entered  the  kitchen. 

There  was  a  bed  in  this  room.  Granmar  would  not 
allow  it  to  be  moved  elsewhere ;  her  bed  had  always 
been  in  the  kitchen,  and  in  the  kitchen  it  should  re- 
main ;  no  one  but  Denza,  indeed,  would  wish  to  shove 
her  off ;  Annunziata  had  liked  to  have  her  dear  old 
granmar  there,  where  she  could  see  for  herself  that  she 
was  having  everything  she  needed ;  but  Annunziata  had 
been  an  angel  of  goodness,  as  well  as  of  the  dearest 
beauty ;  whereas  Denza — but  any  one  could  see  what 
Denza  was  !  As  Gran  mar's  tongue  was  decidedly  a 
thing  to  be  reckoned  with,  her  bed  remained  where  it 
always  had  been ;  from  its  comfortable  cleanliness  the 
old  creature  could  overlook  and  criticise  to  her  heart's 
content  the  entire  household  economy  of  Annunziata's 
successor.  Not  only  the  kitchen,  but  the  whole  house 
and  garden,  had  been  vigorously  purified  by  this  suc- 
cessor ;  single  -  handed  she  had  attacked  and  carried 
away  accumulations  which  had  been  there  since  Colum- 
bus discovered  America.  Even  Granmar  was  rescued 
from  her  squalor  and  coaxed  to  wear  a  clean  cap  and 
neat  little  shawl,  her  withered  brown  hands  reposing 
meanwhile  upon  a  sheet  which,  though  coarse,  was  spot- 
less. 

Granmar  was  a  very  terrible  old  woman  ;  she  had  a 


8  THE    FRONT    YARD 

beak-like  nose,  round  glittering  black  eyes  set  in  broad 
circles  of  yellow  wrinkles,  no  mouth  to  speak  of,  and 
a  receding  chin  ;  her  voice  was  now  a  gruff  bass,  now  a 
shrill  yell. 

"  How  late  you  are  !  you  do  it  on  purpose,"  she  said 
as  Prudence  entered.  "And  me  —  as  haven't  had  a 
thing  I've  wanted  since  you  went  away  hours  upon 
hours  ago.  Nunziata  there  has  been  as  stupid  as  a 
stone — behold  her  !" 

She  spoke  in  peasant  Italian,  a  tongue  which  Mrs. 
Guadagni  the  second  (called  Denza  by  the  family,  from 
Prudenza,  the  Italian  form  of  her  first  name)  now  spoke 
readily  enough,  though  after  a  fashion  of  her  own.  She 
remained  always  convinced  that  Italian  was  simply  lu- 
natic English,  English  spoiled.  One  of  the  children, 
named  Pasquale,  she  called  Squawly,  and  she  always 
believed  that  the  title  came  from  the  strength  of  his 
infant  lungs ;  many  other  words  impressed  her  in  the 
same  way. 

She  now  made  no  reply  to  Granmar's  complaints  save 
to  give  one  business-like  look  towards  the  bed  to  see 
whether  the  pillows  were  properly  adjusted  for  the  old 
creature's  comfort ;  then  she  crossed  the  room  towards 
the  stove,  a  large  ancient  construction  of  bricks,  with 
two  or  three  small  depressions  over  which  an  iron  pot 
could  be  set. 

"  Well,  Nounce,"  she  said  to  a  girl  who  was  sitting 
there  on  a  little  bench.  The  tone  of  her  voice  was 
kindly  ;  she  looked  to  see  if  a  fire  had  been  made.  A 
few  coals  smouldered  in  one  of  the  holes.  "  Good  girl," 
said  Prudence,  commendingly. 

"  Oh,  very  good  !"  cried  Granmar  from  the  bed — 
"  very  good,  when  I  told  her  forty  times,  and  fifty,  to 


THE    FRONT    YARD  9 

make  me  an  omelet,  a  wee  fat  one  with  a  drop  of  fig 
in  it,  and  I  so  faint,  and  she  wouldn't,  the  snake !  she 
wouldn't,  the  toad  ! — toadest  of  toads  !" 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  girl  turned  slowly  towards  Pru- 
dence. Prudence,  as  she  busied  herself  with  the  coals, 
gave  her  a  little  nod  of  approbation,  which  Granmar 
could  not  see.  The  girl  looked  pleased  for  a  moment ; 
then  her  face  sank  into  immobility  again.  She  was 
not  an  idiot,  but  wanting,  as  it  was  called  ;  a  deli- 
cate, pretty  young  creature,  who,  with  her  cousin  Pippo, 
had  been  only  a  year  old  when  the  second  wife  came 
to  Assisi.  It  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  be  fond 
of  Pippo,  who  even  at  that  age  had  been  selfish  and 
gluttonous  to  an  abnormal  degree ;  but  Prudence  had 
learned  to  love  the  helpless  little  girl  committed  to  her 
care,  as  she  had  also  learned  to  love  very  dearly  the 
child's  brother  Giovanni,  who  was  but  a  year  older ; 
they  had  been  but  babies,  both  of  them.  The  girl 
was  now  seventeen.  Her  name  was  Annunziata,  but 
Prudence  called  her  Nounce.  "  If  it  means  'Announce,' 
Nounce  is  near  enough,  I  guess,"  she  said  to  herself, 
aggressively.  The  truth  was  that  she  hated  the  name ; 
it  had  belonged  to  Tonio's  first  wife,  and  of  the  memory 
of  that  comely  young  mother,  poor  Prudence,  with  her 
sixty  years,  her  white  hair,  and  wrinkled  skin,  was  burn- 
ingly  jealous  even  now.  Giovanni's  name  she  pro- 
nounced as  though  it  were  two  words — Jo  Vanny ;  she 
really  thought  there  were  two.  Jo  she  knew  well,  of 
course ;  it  was  a  good  New  England  name;  Vanny  was 
probably  some  senseless  Italian  addition.  The  name  of 
the  eldest  son,  Augusto,  became  on  her  lips  Gooster ; 
Paolo  was  Parlo,  Assunta  was  Soonter. 

The  nuns  had  finally  taken  Soonter.    The  step-mother 


10  THE    FRONT    YARD 

had  been  unable  to  conceal  from  herself  her  own  pro- 
found relief.  True,  the  girl  had  gone  to  a  "  papish  " 
convent ;  but  she  had  always  been  a  mystery  in  the 
house,  and  the  constant  presence  of  a  mystery  is  par- 
ticularly trying  to  the  New  England  mind.  Soonter 
spent  hours  in  meditation ;  she  was  very  quiet ;  she  be- 
lieved that  she  saw  angels ;  her  face  wore  often  a  far- 
away smile. 

On  this  September  evening  she  prepared  a  heavily 
abundant  supper  for  Granmar,  and  a  simple  one  for 
Nounce,  who  ate  at  any  time  hardly  more  than  a  bird  ; 
Granmar,  on  the  contrary,  was  gifted  with  an  appetite 
of  extraordinary  capacities,  the  amount  of  food  which 
was  necessary  to  keep  her,  not  in  good-humor  (she  was 
never  in  good-humor),  but  in  passable  bodily  tranquilli- 
ty, through  the  twenty-four  hours  being  equal  to  that 
which  would  have  been  required  (so  Prudence  often 
thought)  for  three  hearty  New  England  harvesters  at 
home.  Not  that  Granmar  would  touch  Ne\v  England 
food  ;  none  of  the  family  would  eat  the  home  dishes 
which  Prudence  in  the  earlier  years  had  hopefully 
tried  to  prepare  from  such  materials  as  seemed  to  her 
the  least  "  onreasonable " ;  Granmar,  indeed,  had  de- 
clared each  and  all  fit  only  for  the  hogs.  Prudence 
never  tried  them  now,  and  she  had  learned  the  art  of 
Italian  cooking;  for  she  felt  that  she  could  not  afford 
to  make  anything  that  was  to  be  for  herself  alone ;  the 
handful  of  precious  twigs  must  serve  for  the  family  as 
a  whole.  But  every  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  her  nat- 
ural abstemiousness,  she  would  be  haunted  by  a  vision 
of  a  "  boiled  dinner,"  the  boiled  corned-beef,  the  boiled 
cabbage,  turnips,  and  potatoes,  and  the  boiled  Indian 
pudding  of  her  youth.  She  should  never  taste  these 


THE    FRONT   YAKD  11 

dainties  on  earth  again.  More  than  once  she  caught 
herself  hoping  that  at  least  the  aroma  of  them  would  be 
given  to  her  some  time  in  heaven. 

When  Granmar  was  gorged  she  became  temporarily 
more  tranquil.  Prudence  took  this  time  to  speak  of  a  plan 
which  she  had  had  in  her  mind  for  several  days.  "  Now 
that  Gooster  and  the  other  boys  are  doing  for  them- 
selves, Granmar,  and  Bepper  too  at  last,  and  Jo  Vanny 
only  needing  a  trifle  of  help  now  and  then  (he's  so 
young  yet,  you  know),  I  feel  as  though  I  might  be  earn- 
ing more  money,"  she  began. 

"  Money's  a  very  good  thing ;  we've  never  had  half 
enough  since  my  sainted  Annunziata  joined  the  angels," 
responded  Granmar,  with  a  pious  air. 

"  Well,  it  seems  a  good  time  to  try  and  earn  some 
more.  Soonter's  gone  to  the  convent ;  and  as  it's  a 
long  while  since  Pipper's  been  here,  I  really  begin  to 
think  he  has  gone  off  to  get  work  somewhere,  as  he  al- 
ways said  was  going  to." 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure  of  Pippo,"  said  Granmar, 
shaking  her  owl-like  head  ominously. 

"  'Tany  rate  he  hasn't  been  here,  and  I  always  try  to 
hope  the  best  about  him — " 

"And  that's  what  you  call  the  best?"  interrupted 
Granmar,  with  one  of  her  sudden  flank  movements,  "  to 
have  him  gone  away  off  no  one  knows  where — Annun- 
ziata's  own  precious  little  nephew — taken  by  the  pirates 
— yam!  Sold  as  a  slave — yam!  Killed  in  the  war! 
Oh,  Pippo  !  poor  Pippo  !  poor  little  Pipp,  Pipp,  Pipp  !" 

"  And  so  I  thought  I'd  try  to  go  to  the  shop  by  the 
day,"  Prudence  went  on,  when  this  yell  had  ceased ; 
"they  want  me  to  come  and  cut  out.  I  shouldn't  go 
until  after  your  breakfast,  of  course ;  and  I  could  leave 


12  THE    FRONT   YARD 

cold  things  out,  and  Nounce  would  cook  you  something 
hot  at  noon  ;  then  I  should  be  home  myself  every  night 
in  time  to  get  your  supper." 

"  And  so  that's  the  plan — I'm  to  be  left  alone  here 
with  an  idiot  while  you  go  flouncing  your  heels  round 
Assisi !  Flounce,  cat !  It's  a  wonder  the  dead  don't 
rise  in  their  graves  to  hear  it.  But  we  buried  my  An- 
nunziata  too  deep  for  that — yam  ! — otherwise  she'd  'a 
been  here  to  tear  your  eyes  out.  An  old  woman  left  to 
starve  alone,  her  own  precious  grandmother,  growing 
weaker  and  weaker,  and  pining  and  pining.  Blessed 
stomach,  do  you  hear — do  you  hear,  my  holy,  blessed 
stomach,  always  asking  for  so  little,  and  now  not  even 
to  get  that?  It's  turned  all  a  mumble  of  cold  just 
thinking  of  it — yam  !  I,  poor  sufferer,  who  have  had 
to  stand  your  ugly  face  so  long — I  so  fond  of  beauty  ! 
You  haven't  got  but  twenty-four  hairs  now  ;  you  know 
you  haven't  —  yam!  I've  got  more  than  you  twenty 
times  over — hey  !  that  I  have."  And  Granmar,  tearing 
off  her  cap,  pulled  loose  her  coarse  white  hair,  and 
grasping  the  ends  of  the  long  locks  with  her  crooked 
fingers,  threw  them  aloft  with  a  series  of  shrill  halloos. 

"  I  won't  go  to  the  shop,"  said  Prudence.  "  Mercy 
on  us,  what  a  noise !  I  say  I  won't  go  to  the  shop. 
There  !  do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Will  you  be  here  every  day  of  your  life  at  twelve 
o'clock  to  cook  me  something  that  won't  poison  me  ?" 
demanded  Granmar,  still  hallooing. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  promise  you." 

Even  Granmar  believed  Prudence's  yes ;  her  yea  was 
yea  and  her  nay  nay  to  all  the  family.  "  You  cook  me 
something  this  very  minute,"  she  said,  sullenly,  putting 
on  her  cap  askew. 


THE    FKONT    YARD  13 

"  Why,  you've  only  just  got  through  your  supper !" 
exclaimed  Prudence,  astonished,  used  though  she  was 
to  Granrnar's  abdominal  capacities,  by  this  sudden  de- 
mand. 

"You  won't?  Then  I'll  yell  again,"  said  Granmar. 
And  yell  she  did. 

"  Hold  up — do ;  I  believe  you  now,"  said  Prudence. 
She  fanned  the  dying  coals  with  a  straw  fan,  made  up 
the  fire,  and  prepared  some  griddle  -  cakes.  Granmar 
demanded  fig  syrup  to  eat  with  them  ;  and  devoured 
six.  Filled  to  repletion,  she  then  suffered  Prudence  to 
change  her  day  cap  for  a  nightcap,  falling  asleep  almost 
before  her  head  touched  the  pillow. 

During  this  scene  Nounce  had  sat  quietly  in  her  cor- 
ner. Prudence  now  went  to  her  to  see  if  she  was  fright- 
ened, for  the  girl  was  sometimes  much  terrified  by 
Granmar's  outcries ;  she  stroked  her  soft  hair.  She  was 
always  looking  for  signs  of  intelligence  in  Nounce,  and 
fancying  that  she  discovered  them.  Taking  the  girl's 
hand,  she  went  with  her  to  the  next  room,  where  were 
their  two  narrow  pallet  beds.  "  You  were  very  smart 
to  save  the  eggs  for  me  to-day  when  Granmar  wanted 
that  omerlet,"  she  whispered,  as  she  helped  her  to  un- 
dress. 

Memory  came  back  to  Nounce ;  she  smiled  compre- 
hendingly. 

Prudence  waited  until  she  was  in  bed  ;  then  she  kissed 
her  good-night,  and  put  out  the  candle. 

Her  two  charges  asleep,  Mrs.  Guadagni  the  second 
opened  the  back  door  softly  and  went  out.  It  was  not 
yet  nine  o'clock,  a  warm  dark  night;  though  still  Sep- 
tember, the  odors  of  autumn  were  already  in  the  air, 
coming  from  the  September  flowers,  which  have  a  pun- 


14  THE    FROST    YAKD 

gency  mingled  with  their  perfume,  from  the  rank  ripe- 
ness of  the  vegetables,  from  the  aroma  of  the  ground 
after  the  first  rains. 

"  I  could  have  made  thirty  cents  a  week  more  at  the 
shop,"  she  said  to  herself,  regretfully  (she  always  trans- 
lated the  Italian  money  into  American  or  French).  "  In 
a  month  that  would  have  been  a  dollar  and  twenty  cents! 
Well,  there's  no  use  thinking  about  it  sence  I  can't  go." 
She  bent  over  her  vegetables,  feeling  of  their  leaves,  and 
estimating  anew  how  many  she  could  afford  to  sell,  now 
that  the  family  was  so  much  reduced  in  size.  Then  she 
paid  a  visit  to  her  fig-trees.  She  had  planted  these 
trees  herself,  and  watched  over  their  infancy  with  anx- 
ious care  ;  at  the  present  moment  they  were  loaded  with 
fruit,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  knew  the  position  of  each 
fig,  so  many  times  had  she  stood  under  the  boughs  look- 
ing up  at  the  slowly  swelling  bulbs.  She  had  never  be- 
fore been  able  to  sell  the  fruit.  But  now  she  should  be 
able,  and  the  sale  would  add  a  good  many  cents  to  the 
store  of  savings  kept  in  her  work-box.  This  work-box, 
a  possession  of  her  youth,  was  lined  with  vivid  green 
paper,  and  had  a  colored  lithograph  of  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  Norton  (taken  as  a  Muse)  on  the  inside  of  the  cover ; 
it  held  already  three  francs  and  a  half,  that  is  seventy 
cents — an  excellent  sum  when  one  considered  that  only 
three  weeks  had  passed  since  the  happy  day  when  she 
had  at  last  beheld  the  way  open  to  saving  regularly, 
laying  by  regularly  ;  many  times  had  she  begun  to  save, 
but  she  had  never  been  able  to  continue  it.  Now,  with 
this  small  household,  she  should  be  able  to  continue. 
The  sale  of  the  figs  would  probably  double  the  savings 
already  in  the  work-box ;  she  might  even  get  eighty 
cents  for  them ;  and  that  would  make  a  dollar  and  fifty 


THE    FRONT    YARD  15 

cents  in  all !  A  fig  fell  to  the  ground.  "  They're  ripe," 
she  thought ;  "  they  must  be  picked  to-morrow."  She 
felt  for  the  fallen  fig  in  the  darkness,  and  carrying  it  to 
the  garden  wall,  placed  it  in  a  dry  niche  where  it  would 
keep  its  freshness  until  she  could  send  it  to  town  with 
the  rest.  Then  she  went  to  the  hen-house.  "  Smart  of 
Nounce  to  save  the  eggs  for  me,"  she  thought,  laugh- 
ing delightedly  to  herself  over  this  proof  of  the  girl's 
intelligence.  "  Gran  mar  didn't  need  that  omerlet  one 
bit ;  I  left  out  two  tremenjous  lunches  for  her."  She 
peered  in ;  but  could  not  see  the  hens  in  the  darkness. 
"  If  Granmar  'd  only  eat  the  things  we  do  !"  her  thoughts 
went  on.  "  But  she's  always  possessed  after  everything 
that  takes  eggs.  And  then  she  wants  the  very  best 
coffee,  and  white  sugar,  and  the  best  wine,  and  fine  flour 
and  meal  and  oil — my  !  how  much  oil !  But  I  wonder 
if  /  couldn't  stop  eating  something  or  other,  steader 
pestering  myself  about  her  ?  Let's  see.  I  don't  take 
wine  nor  coffee,  so  I  can't  stop  them ;  but  I  could  stop 
soup  meat,  just  for  myself;  and  I  will.  Thus  medi- 
tating, she  went  slowly  round  to  the  open  space  before 
the  house. 

To  call  it  a  space  was  a  misnomer.  The  house  stood 
at  the  apex  of  the  hill,  and  its  garden  by  right  extended 
as  far  down  the  descent  in  front  as  it  extended  down 
the  opposite  descent  behind,  where  Prudence  had  plant- 
ed her  long  rows  of  vegetables.  But  in  this  front  space, 
not  ten  feet  distant  from  the  house  door,  planted  direct- 
ly across  the  paved  path  which  came  up  from  below, 
was  the  cow -shed,  the  intruding  offensive  neighbor 
whose  odors,  gruntmgs  (for  it  was  now  a  pig-sty),  and 
refuse  were  constantly  making  themselves  perceptible  to 
one  sense  and  another  through  the  open  windows  of  the 


16  THE    FRONT    YARD 

dwelling  behind.  For  the  house  had  no  back  win- 
dows; the  small  apertures  which  passed  for  windows 
were  all  in  front ;  in  that  climate  it  was  impossible  that 
they  should  be  always  closed.  How  those  odors  choked 
Prudence  Wilkin  !  It  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  re- 
spect herself  while  obliged  to  breathe  them,  as  if  she 
had  not  respected  herself  (in  the  true  Ledham  way) 
since  the  pig-sty  became  her  neighbor. 

For  fifty  francs  the  owners  would  take  it  away  ;  for 
another  twenty  or  thirty  she  could  have  "  a  front  yard." 
But  though  she  had  made  many  beginnings,  she  had 
never  been  able  to  save  a  tenth  of  the  sum.  None  of 
the  family  shared  her  feelings  in  the  least ;  to  spend 
precious  money  for  such  a  whim  as  that — only  an  Amer- 
ican could  be  capable  of  it ;  but  then,  as  everybody 
knew,  most  Americans  were  mad.  And  why  should 
Denza  object  to  pigs  ? 

Prudence  therefore  had  been  obliged  to  keep  her 
longings  to  herself.  But  this  had  only  intensified 
them.  And  now  when  at  last,  after  thinking  of  it  for 
sixteen  years,  she  was  free  to  begin  to  save  daily  and 
regularly,  she  saw  as  in  a  vision  her  front  yard  com- 
pleted as  she  would  like  to  have  it :  the  cow-shed  gone  ; 
"  a  nice  straight  path  going  down  to  the  front  gate,  set 
in  a  new  paling  fence ;  along  the  sides  currant  bushes ; 
and  in  the  open  spaces  to  the  right  and  left  a  big  flow- 
erin'  shrub — snowballs,  or  Missouri  currant ;  near  the 
house  a  clump  of  matrimony,  perhaps;  and  in  the  flower 
beds  on  each  side  of  the  path  bachelor's-buttons, 
Chiny-asters,  lady'-s-slippers,  and  pinks  ;  the  edges  bor- 
dered with  box."  She  heaved  a  sigh  of  deep  satisfac- 
tion as  she  finished  her  mental  review.  But  it  was 
hardly  mental  after  all ;  she  saw  the  gate,  she  saw  the 


THE    FRONT    YARD  17 

straight  path,  she  saw  the  currant  bushes  and  the  box- 
bordered  flower  beds  as  distinctly  as  though  they  had 
really  been  there. 

Cheered,  almost  joyous,  she  went  within,  locking 
the  door  behind  her;  then,  after  softly  placing  the 
usual  store  of  provisions  beside  Granmar's  bed  (for 
Granmar  had  a  habit  of  waking  in  the  night  to  eat), 
she  sought  her  own  couch.  It  was  hard,  but  she 
stretched  herself  upon  it  luxuriously.  "  The  figs  '11 
double  the  money,"  she  thought,  "  and  by  this  time 
to-morrow  I  shall  have  a  dollar  and  forty  cents ;  mebby 
a  dollar  fifty  !"  She  fell  asleep  happily. 

Her  contentment  made  her  sleep  soundly.  Still  it 
was  not  long  after  dawn  when  she  hurried  down  the 
hill  to  the  town  to  get  her  supply  of  work  from  the 
shop.  Hastening  back  with  it,  she  found  Granmar 
clamoring  for  her  coffee,  and  Nounce,  neatly  dressed 
and  clean  (for  so  much  Prudence  had  succeeded  in 
teaching  her),  sitting  patiently  in  her  corner.  Pru- 
dence's mind  was  full  of  a  sale  she  had  made  \  but  she 
prepared  the  coffee  and  Nounce's  broth  with  her  usual 
care  ;  she  washed  her  dishes,  and  made  Granmar  tidy 
for  the  day ;  finally  she  arranged  all  her  sewing  imple- 
ments on  the  table  by  the  window  beside  her  pile  of 
work.  Now  she  could  give  herself  the  luxury  of  one 
last  look,  one  last  estimate;  for  she  had  made  a  miracle 
of  a  bargain  for  her  figs.  By  ten  o'clock  the  men 
would  be  up  to  gather  them. 

It  was  a  hazy  morning ;  butterflies  danced  before 
her  as  she  hastened  towards  the  loaded  trees.  Reach- 
ing them,  she  looked  up.  The  boughs  were  bare.  All 
the  figs  had  been  gathered  in  the  night,  or  at  earliest 
dawn. 


18  THE    FKON'T    YARD 

"  Pipper  !"  she  murmured  to  herself. 

The  ground  under  the  trees  was  trampled. 

Seven  weeks  later,  on  the  16th  of  November,  this 
same  Prudence  was  adding  to  her  secreted  store  the 
fifteen  cents  needed  to  make  the  sum  ten  francs  ex- 
actly— that  is,  two  dollars.  "  Ten  francs,  a  fifth  of  the 
whole !  It  seems  'most  too  lucky  that  I've  got  on  so 
well,  spite  of  Pipper's  taking  the  figs.  If  I  can  keep 
along  this  way,  it  '11  all  be  done  by  the  Fourth  of  July  ; 
not  just  the  cow-shed  taken  away,  but  the  front  yard 
done  too.  My !"  She  sat  down  on  a  fagot  to  think  it 
over.  The  thought  was  rapture  ;  she  laughed  to  herself 
and  at  herself  for  being  so  happy. 

Some  one  called,  "  Mamma."  She  came  out,  and 
found  Jo  Vanny  looking  for  her.  Nounce  and  Jo 
Vanny  were  the  only  ones  among  the  children  who 
had  ever  called  her  mother. 

"  Oh,  you're  up  there  in  the  shed,  are  you  ?"  said  Jo 
Vanny.  "  Somehow,  mamma,  you  look  very  gay." 

"  Yes,  I'm  gay,"  answered  Prudence.  "  Perhaps 
some  of  these  days  I'll  tell  you  why."  In  her  heart 
she  thought :  "  Jo  Vanny,  now,  he'd  understand  ;  he'd 
feel  as  I  do  if  I  should  explain  it  to  him.  A  nice 
front  yard  he  has  never  seen  in  all  his  life,  for  they 
don't  have  'em  here.  But  once  he  knew  what  it  was, 
he'd  care  about  it  as  much  as  I  do ;  I  know  he  would. 
He's  sort  of  American,  anyhow."  It  was  the  highest 
praise  she  could  give.  The  boy  had  his  cap  off ;  she 
smoothed  his  hair.  " '  Pears  to  me  you  must  have  lost 
your  comb,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  it  all  cut  off  as  short  as  can  be," 
announced  Jo  Vanny,  with  a  resolute  air. 

"  Oh  no." 


THE    FRONT    YARD  19 

"  Yes,  I  am.  Some  of  the  other  fellows  have  had 
theirs  cut  that  way,  and  I'm  going  to,  too,"  pursued 
the  young  stoic. 

He  was  eighteen,  rather  undersized  and  slender, 
handsome  as  to  his  face,  with  large  dark  long-lashed 
eyes,  well-cut  features,  white  teeth,  and  the  curly  hair 
which  Prudence  had  smoothed.  Though  he  had  vowed 
them  to  destruction,  these  love-locks  were  for  the  pres- 
ent arranged  in  the  style  most  approved  in  Assisi,  one 
thick  glossy  flake  being  brought  down  low  over  the 
forehead,  so  that  it  showed  under  his  cap  in  a  senti- 
mental wave.  lie  did  not  look  much  like  a  hard-work- 
ing carpenter  as  he  stood  there  dressed  in  dark  clothes 
made  in  that  singular  exaggeration  of  the  fashions 
which  one  sees  only  in  Italy.  IIis  trousers,  small  at 
the  knee,  were  large  and  wing-like  at  the  ankle,  half 
covering  the  tight  shabby  shoes  run  down  at  the  heel 
and  absurdly  short,  which,  however,  as  they  were  made 
of  patent  -  leather  and  sharply  pointed  at  the  toes,  Jo 
Yanny  considered  shoes  of  gala  aspect.  His  low  flaring 
collar  was  surrounded  by  a  red-satin  cravat  ornamented 
by  a  gilt  horseshoe.  He  wore  a  ring  on  the  little  finger 
of  each  hand.  In  his  own  eyes  his  attire  was  splendid. 

In  the  eyes  of  some  one  else  also.  To  Prudence,  as 
he  stood  there,  he  looked  absolutely  beautiful ;  she  felt 
all  a  mother's  pride  rise  in  her  heart  as  she  surveyed 
him.  But  she  must  not  let  him  see  it,  and  she  must 
scold  him  for  wearing  his  best  clothes  every  day. 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  a  festa,"  she  began. 

"  'Tain't.  But  one  of  the  fellows  has  had  a  sister 
married,  and  they've  invited  us  all  to  a  big  supper  to- 
night," 

"To-night  isn't  to-day,  that  I  know  of." 


20  THE    FKONT   YARD 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  go  all  covered  with  sawdust?" 
said  the  little  dandy,  Avith  a  disdainful  air.  "  Besides, 
I  wanted  to  come  up  here." 

"  It  is  a  good  while  sence  we've  seen  you,"  Prudence 
admitted.  In  her  heart  she  was  delighted  that  he  had 
wished  to  come.  "  Have  you  had  your  dinner,  Jo 
Vanny  ?" 

"  All  I  want.  I'll  take  a  bit  of  bread  and  some  wine 
by-and-by.  But  you  needn't  go  to  cooking  for  me, 
mamma.  I  say,  tell  me  what  it  was  that  made  you  look 
so  glad  ?"  said  the  boy,  curiously. 

"  Never  you  mind  now,"  said  Prudence,  the  gleam  of 
content  coming  again  into  her  eyes,  and  lighting  up  her 
brown,  wrinkled  face.  She  was  glad  that  she  had  the 
ten  francs ;  she  was  glad  to  see  the  boy ;  she  was 
.touched  by  his  unselfishness  in  declining  her  offer  of  a 
second  dinner.  No  other  member  of  the  family  would 
have  declined  or  waited  to  decline;  the  others  would 
have  demanded  some  freshly  cooked  dish  immediately 
upon  entering;  Uncle  Patro  would  have  demanded 
three  or  four. 

"  I've  brought  my  mandolin,"  Jo  Vanny  went  on. 
"  I've  got  to  take  it  to  the  supper,  of  course,  because 
they  always  want  me  to  sing — I  never  can  get  rid  of 
'em !  And  so  you  can  hear  me,  if  you  like.  I  know 
the  new  songs,  and  one  of  them  I  composed  myself. 
Well,  it's  rather  heavenly." 

All  Tonio's  children  sang  like  birds.  Poor  Prudence, 
who  had  no  ear  for  music,  had  never  been  able  to  com- 
prehend either  the  pleasure  or  the  profit  of  the  hours 
they  gave  to  their  carollings.  But  when,  in  his  turn, 
her  little  Jo  Vanny  began  his  pipings,  then  she  listened, 
or  tried  to  listen.  "  Real  purty,  Jo  Vanny,"  she  would 


THE    FRONT    YARD  21 

say,  when  the  silence  of  a  moment  or  two  had  assured 
her  that  his  song  was  ended ;  it  was  her  only  way  of 
knowing — the  silence. 

So  now  she  brought  her  work  out  to  the  garden, 
and  sewed  busily  while  Jo  Vanny  sang  and  thrummed. 
Nounce,  too,  came  out,  and  sat  on  the  wall  near  by, 
listening. 

At  length  the  little  singer  took  himself  off  —  took 
himself  off  with  his  red-satin  cravat,  his  horseshoe  pin, 
and  his  mandolin  under  his  arm.  Nounce  went  back 
to  the  house,  but  Prudence  sat  awhile  longer,  using,  as 
she  always  did,  the  very  last  rays  of  the  sunset  light 
for  her  sewing. 

After  a  while  she  heard  a  step,  and  looked  up. 
"  Why,  Gooster  ! — anything  the  matter  ?"  she  said,  in 
surprise. 

Unlike  the  slender  little  Jo  Vanny,  Gooster  was  a 
large,  stoutly  built  young  man,  as  slow  in  his  motions 
as  Jo  Vanny  was  quick.  He  was  a  lethargic  fellow 
with  sombre  eyes,  eyes  which  sometimes  had  a  gleam 
in  them. 

"  There's  nothing  especial  the  matter,"  he  answered, 
dully.  "  I  think  I'll  go  for  a  soldier,  Denza." 

"  Go  for  a  soldier  ?     And  the  per-dairy  ?" 

"  I  can't  never  go  back  to  the  podere.  She's  there, 
and  she  has  taken  up  with  Matteo.  I've  had  my  heart 
trampled  upon,  and  so  I've  got  a  big  hankering  either 
to  kill  somebody  or  get  killed  myself;  and  I'll  either 
do  it  here,  or  I'll  go  for  a  soldier  and  get  knifed  in  the 
war." 

"  Mercy  on  us  I  there  isn't  any  war  now,"  said  Pru- 
dence, dazed  by  these  sanguinary  suggestions. 

"  There's  always  a  war.     What  else  are  there  soldiers 


22  THE    FRONT    YARD 

for  ?  And  there's  lots  of  soldiers.  But  I  could  get 
knifed  here  easy  enough  ;  Matte o  and  I — already  we've 
had  one  tussle ;  I  gave  him  a  pretty  big  cut,  you  may 
depend." 

Seventeen  years  earlier  Prudence  Wilkin  would  have 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  being  frightened  by  such  words 
as  these.  But  Mrs.  Tonio  Guadagni  had  heard  of  wild 
deeds  in  Assisi,  and  wilder  ones  still  among  the  peas- 
ants of  the  hill  country  roundabout ;  these  singing,  in- 
dolent Umbrians  dealt  sometimes  in  revenges  that  were 
very  direct  and  primitive. 

"You  let  Matteo  alone,  Gooster,"  she  said,  putting 
her  hand  on  his  arm;  "you  go  straight  over  to  Perugia 
and  stay  there.  Perhaps  you  can  get  work  where  Parlo 
and  Squawly  are." 

"  I  shall  have  it  out  with  Matteo  here,  or  else  go  for 
a  soldier  to-morrow,"  answered  Gooster,  in  his  lethargic 
tone. 

"  Well,  go  for  a  soldier,  then." 

"It  don't  make  much  difference  to  me  which  I  do," 
Gooster  went  on,  as  if  only  half  awake.  "  If  I  go  for  a 
soldier,  I  shall  have  to  get  to  Florence  somehow,  I  sup- 
pose-, I  shall  have  to  have  ten  francs  for  the  railroad." 

"  Is  it  ten  exactly  ?"  said  Prudence.  Her  mind  flew 
to  her  work-box,  which  held  just  that  sum. 

"It's  ten." 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  money  at  all,  Gooster?"  She 
meant  to  help  him  on  his  way  ;  but  she  thought  that 
she  should  like  to  keep,  if  possible,  a  nest-egg  to  begin 
with  again — say  twenty  cents,  or  ten. 

Gooster  felt  in  his  pockets.  "  Three  soldi,"  he  re- 
plied, producing  some  copper  coins  and  counting  them 
over. 


~ 


THE   FBOST   YARD  23 

"And  there's  nothing  due  you  at  the  per-dairy?" 

There  was  no  necessity  for  answering  such  a  foolish 
question  as  this,  and  Gooster  did  not  answer  it. 

"  Well,  I  will  give  you  the  money,"  said  Prudence. 
But  to-morrow  Ml  do,  won't  it  ?  Stay  here  a  day  or 
two,  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

While  she  was  speaking,  Gooster  had  turned  and 
walked  towards  the  garden  wall.  The  sight  of  his 
back  going  from  her — as  though  she  should  never  see 
it  again — threw  her  into  a  sudden  panic ;  she  ran  after 
him  and  seized  his  arm.  "  I'll  give  you  the  money, 
Gooster  -,  I  told  you  I  would  ;  I've  got  it  all  ready,  and 
it  won't  take  a  minute ;  promise  me  that  you  won't 
leave  this  garden  till  I  come  back." 

Gooster  had  had  no  thought  of  leaving  the  garden ; 
he  had  espied  a  last  bunch  of  grapes  still  hanging  on 
the  vine,  and  was  going  to  get  it;  that  was  all.  "All 
right,"  he  said. 

Prudence  disappeared.  He  gathered  the  grapes  and 
began  to  eat  them,  turning  over  the  bunch  to  see  which 
were  best.  Before  he  had  finished,  Prudence  came 
back,  breathless  with  the  haste  she  had  made.  "  Here," 
she  said;  "and  now  you'll  go  straight  to  Florence, 
won't  you  ?  There's  a  train  to-night,  very  soon  now  * 
you  must  hurry  down  and  take  that." 

He  let  her  put  the  money  in  his  coat-pocket  while  he 
finished  the  grapes.  Then  he  threw  the  stem  carefully 
over  the  garden  wall. 

"  And  no  doubt  you'll  be  a  brave  soldier,"  Prudence 
went  on,  trying  to  speak  hopefully.  "  Brave  soldiers 
are  thought  a  heap  of  everywhere." 

"I  don't  know  as  I  care  what's  thought,"  answered 
Gooster,  indifferently.  He  took  up  his  cap  and  put  it 


24  THE    FRONT    YAKD 

on.  "  Well,  good-bye,  Denza.  Best  wishes  to  you. 
Every  happiness."  He  shook  hands  with  her. 

Prudence  stood  waiting  where  she  was  for  five  min- 
utes ;  then  she  followed  him.  It  was  already  dark ; 
she  went  down  the  hill  rapidly,  and  turned  into  the 
narrow  main  street.  A  few  lamps  were  lighted.  She 
hastened  onward,  hoping  every  minute  to  distinguish 
somewhere  in  front  a  tall  figure  with  slouching  gait. 
At  last,  where  the  road  turns  to  begin  the  long  descent 
to  the  plain,  she  did  distinguish  it.  Yes,  that  was  cer- 
tainly Gooster ;  he  was  going  down  the  hill  towards  the 
railway  station.  All  was  well,  then  ;  she  could  dismiss 
her  anxiety.  She  returned  through  the  town.  Stop- 
ping for  a  moment  at  an  open  space,  she  gazed  down 
upon  the  vast  valley,  now  darkening  into  night;  here  sud- 
denly a  fear  came  over  her — he  might  have  turned  round 
and  come  back !  She  hurried  through  the  town  a  sec- 
ond time,  and  not  meeting^tim,  started  down  the  hill. 
The  road  went  down  in  long  zigzags.  As  she  turned 
each  angle  she  expected  to  see  him ;  but  she  did  not 
see  him,  and  finally  she  reached  the  plain  :  there  were 
the  lights  of  the  station  facing  her.  She  drew  near 
cautiously,  nearer  and  nearer,  until,  herself  unseen  in 
the  darkness,  she  could  peer  through  the  window  into 
the  lighted  waiting-room.  If  he  was  there,  she  could 
see  him  ;  but  if  he  was  on  the  platform  on  the  other 
side —  No ;  he  was  there.  She  drew  a  long  breath 
of  relief,  and  stole  away. 

A  short  distance  up  the  hill  a  wheelbarrow  loaded 
with  stones  had  been  left  by  the  side  of  the  road ;  she 
sat  down  on  the  stones  to  rest,  for  the  first  time  realiz- 
ing how  tired  she  was.  The  train  came  rushing  along ; 
stopped ;  went  on  again.  She  watched  it  as  long  as 


THE    FRONT    YARD  25 

she  could  see  its  lights.     Then  she  rose  and  turned 

O 

slowly  up  the  hill,  beginning  her  long  walk  home. 
"  My,"  she  thought,  "  won't  Granrnar  be  in  a  tantrum, 
though !" 

'  When  she  reached  the  house  she  made  a  circuit, 
and  came  through  the  garden  behind  towards  the  back 
door.  "I  don't  want  to  see  the  front  yard  to-night!" 
she  thought. 

But  she  was  rather  ashamed  of  this  egotism. 

"  And  they  say  they'll  put  me  in  prison — oh — ow  ! — 
an  old  man,  a  good  old  man,  a  suffering  son  of  human- 
ity like  me !"  moaned  Uncle  Pietro. 

"An  old  man,  a  good  old  man,  a  suffering  son  of  hu- 
manity like  him"  repeated  Granmar,  shrilly,  proud  of 
this  fine  language. 

Suddenly  she  brandished  her  lean  arms.  "  You  Den- 
za  there,  with  your  stored-up  money  made  from  my  star- 
vation— yam ! — mine,  how  dare  you  be  so  silent,  figure 
of  a  mule  ?  Starvation !  yes,  indeed.  Wait  and  I'll 
show  you  my  arms,  Pietro ;  wait  and  I'll  show  you  my 
ribs — yam !" 

"  You  keep  yourself  covered  up,  Granmar,"  said  Pru- 
dence, tucking  her  in ;  "  you'll  do  yourself  a  mischief 
in  this  cold  weather." 

"  Ahi !"  said  Granmar,  uand  do  I  care?  If  I  could 
live  to  see  you  drowned,  I'd  freeze  and  be  glad.  Stored- 
up  money  !  stored-up  money  !" 

"  What  do  you  know  of  my  money  ?"  said  Prudence. 
Her  voice  trembled  a  little. 

"  She  confesses  it !"  announced  Granmar,  trium- 
phantly. 

"  An    old   ma  —  an,"    said   Pietro,    crouching    over 


26  THE    FKOXT   YAED 

Nounce's  scaldino.  "  A  good  old  ma— an.  But — ac- 
commodate yourself." 

Prudence  sat  down  and  took  up  lier  sewing.  "  I 
don't  believe  they'll  put  you  in  jail  at  all,  Fatro,"  she 
said ;  "  'twon't  do  'em  any  good,  and  what  they  want 
is  their  money.  You  just  go  to  'em  and  say  that  you'll 
do  day's  work  for  'em  till  it's  made  up,  and  they'll  let 
you  off,  I'll  bet.  Nine  francs,  is  it?  Well,  at  half  a 
franc  a  day  you  can  make  it  up  full  in  eighteen  days ; 
or  call  it  twenty -four  with  the  festas." 

"  The  Americans  are  all  mercenary,"  remarked  old 
Pietro,  waving  his  hand  in  scorn.  "  Being  themselves 
always  influenced  by  gain,  they  cannot  understand  lofty 
motives  nor  the  cold,  glittering  anger  of  the  ruobility. 
The  Leoncinis  are  noble ;  they  are  of  the  old  Count's 
blood.  They  do  not  want  their  money  ;  they  want  re- 
venge— they  want  to  rack  my  bones." 

Granmar  gave  a  long  howl. 

"Favor  me,  my  niece,  with  no  more  of  your  mis- 
takes," concluded  Pietro,  with  dignity. 

"  I  don't  believe  they'd  refuse,"  said  Prudence,  un- 
moved. "  I'll  go  and  ask  'em  myself,  if  you  like ; 
that  '11  be  the  best  way.  I'll  go  right  away  now."  She 
began  to  fold  up  her  work. 

At  this  Pietro,  after  putting  the  scaldino  safely  on 
the  stove,  fell  down  in  a  round  heap  on  the  floor. 
Never  were  limbs  so  suddenly  contorted  and  tangled; 
he  clawed  the  bricks  so  fiercely  with  his  fingers  that 
Nounce,  frightened,  left  her  bench  and  ran  into  the 
next  room. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  I  never  saw  such  a 
man,"  said  Prudence,  trying  to  raise  him. 

"  Let  be  !  let  be  !"  called  out  Granmar ;  "  it's  a  stroke  ; 


THE    FRONT    YARD  27 

and  you've  brought  it  on,  talking  to  him  about  working, 
working  all  day  long  like  a  horse — a  good  old  man  like 
that." 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  a  stroke,"  said  Prudence,  still 
trying  to  get  him  up. 

"My  opinion  is,"  said  Granmar,  sinking  into  sudden 
calm,  "that  he  will  die  in  ten  minutes — exactly  ten." 

His  face  had  indeed  turned  very  red. 

"  Dear  me  !  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  run  down  for 
the  doctor,"  said  Prudence,  desisting.  "  Perhaps  he'd 
ought  to  be  bled." 

"  You  leave  the  doctor  alone,  and  ease  his  mind," 
directed  Granmar;  "that's  what  he  needs,  sensitive  as 
he  is,  and  poetical  too,  poor  fellow.  You  just  shout  in 
his  ear  that  you'll  pay  that  money,  and  you'll  be  sur- 
prised to  see  how  it  '11  loosen  his  joints." 

Mrs.  Guadagni  surveyed  the  good  old  uncle  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  bent  over  him  and  shouted  in  his  ear, 
"  I'll  make  you  a  hot  fig-tart  right  away  now,  Patro,  if 
you'll  set  up." 

As  she  finished  these  words  Granmar  threw  her  scal- 
dino  suddenly  into  the  centre  of  the  kitchen,  where  it 
broke  with  a  crash  upon  the  bricks. 

"  He's  going  to  get  up,"  announced  Prudence,  tri- 
umphantly. 

"  lie  isn't  any  such  thing ;  'twas  the  scaldino  shook 
him,"  responded  Granmar,  in  a  loud,  admonitory  tone. 
"  He'll  never  get  up  again  in  this  world  unless  you  shout 
in  his  ear  that  you'll  pay  that  money." 

And  in  truth  Pietro  was  now  more  knotted  than 
ever. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Jo  Vanny  came 
in.  "  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  uncle  ?"  he  said,  see- 


28  THE    FRONT    YARD 

ing  the  figure  on  the  floor.  lie  bent  over  him  and  tried 
to  ease  his  position. 

"  It's  a  stroke,"  said  Granmar,  in  a  soft  voice.  "  It  '11 
soon  be  over.  Hush  !  leave  him  in  peace.  He's  dying; 
Denza  there,  she  did  it." 

"  They  want  me  to  pay  the  nine  francs  he  has — lost," 
said  Prudence.  "  Perhaps  you  have  heard,  Jo  Vanny, 
that  he  has — lost  nine  francs  that  belonged  to  the  Le- 
oncinis  ?  Nine  whole  francs."  She  looked  at  the  lad, 
and  he  understood  the  look ;  for  only  the  day  before 
she  had  confided  to  him  at  last  her  long-cherished  dream, 
and  (as  she  had  been  sure  he  would)  he  had  sympathized 
with  it  warmly. 

"  I  declare  I  wish  I  had  even  a  franc !"  he  said,  search- 
ing his  pockets  desperately ;  "  but  I've  only  got  a  cig- 
arette. Will  you  try  a  cigarette,  uncle  ?"  he  shouted  in 
the  heap's  ear. 

"Don't  you  mock  him,"  ordered  Granmar  (but  Jo 
Vanny  had  been  entirely  in  earnest).  "He'll  die  soon, 
and  Denza  will  be  rid  of  him  ;  that's  what  she  wants. 
'Twill  be  murder,  of  course  ;  and  he'll  haunt  us — he's 
always  said  he'd  haunt  somebody.  But  /ain't  long  for 
this  world,  so  I  ain't  disturbed.  Heaven's  waiting  wide 
open  for  we." 

Jo  Vanny  looked  a  little  frightened.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  surveying  the  motionless  Pietro  ;  then  he  drew 
Prudence  aside.  "  He's  an  awful  wicked  old  man,  and 
might  really  do  it,"  he  whispered ;  "  'specially  as  you 
ain't  a  Catholic,  mamma.  I  think  you'd  better  give 
him  the  money  if  it'll  stop  him  off;  /  don't  mind,  but 
it  would  be  bad  for  you  if  he  should  come  rapping  on 
your  window's  and  showing  corpse-lights  in  the  garden 
by-and-by." 


THE    FRONT    YARD  29 

Prudence  brought  her  hands  together  sharply — a 
gesture  of  exasperation.  "  He  ain't  going  to  die  any 
more  than  I  am,"  she  said.  But  she  knew  what  life 
would  be  in  that  house  with  such  a  threat  hang- 
ing over  it,  even  though  the  execution  were  deferred 
to  some  vague  future  time.  Angrily  she  left  the 
room. 

Jo  Vanny  followed  her.  "  Come  along,  if  you  want 
to,"  she  said,  half  impatient,  half  glad.  She  felt  a  sud- 
den desire  that  some  one  besides  herself  should  see  the 
sacrifice,  see  the  actual  despoiling  of  the  little  box  she 
had  labored  to  fill.  She  went  to  the  wood-shed.  It 
was  a  gloomy  December  day,  and  the  vegetables  hang- 
ing on  the  walls  had  a  dreary,  stone  -  like  look ;  she 
climbed  up  on  a  barrel,  and  removed  the  hay  which 
filled  a  rough  shelf ;  in  a  niche  behind  was  her  work- 
box  ;  with  it  in  her  hand  she  climbed  down  again. 

She  gave  him  the  box  to  hold  while  she  counted  out 
the  money — nine  francs.  "  There  are  twelve  in  all," 
she  said. 

"  Then  you'll  have  three  left,"  said  Jo  Vanny. 

"  Yes,  three."  She  could  not  help  a  sigh  of  retro- 
spect, the  outgoing  nine  represented  so  many  long 
hours  of  toil. 

"  Let  me  put  the  box  back,"  said  the  boy.  Il  was 
quickly  and  deftly  done.  "  Never  mind  about  it,  mam- 
ma," he  said,  as  he  jumped  down.  "7'11  help  you  to 
make  it  up  again.  I  want  that  front  yard  as  much  as 
you  do,  now  you've  told  me  about  it ;  I  think  it  will  be 
beautiful." 

"  Well,"  said  Prudence,  "  when  the  flower-beds  are 
all  fixed  up,  and  the  new  front  path  and  swing  gate,  it 
will  be  kind  of  nice,  I  reckon." 


30  THE    FRONT    YARD 

"  Nice  ?"  said  Jo  Vanny.  "  That's  not  the  word. 
'Twill  be  an  ecstasy  !  a  smile  !  a  dream  !" 

"  Bless  the  boy,  what  nonsense  he  talks  !"  said  the 
step-mother.  But  she  loved  to  hear  his  romantic 
phrases  all  the  same. 

They  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  The  sacrifice  had 
now  become  a  cheerful  one.  She  bent  over  the  heap. 
"  Here's  your  nine  francs,  Patro,"  she  shouted.  "  Come, 
now,  come  !" 

Pietro  felt  the  money  in  his  hand.  He  rose  quietly. 
"  I'm  nearly  killed  with  all  your  yelling,"  he  said.  Then 
he  took  his  hat  and  left  the  house. 

"  We  did  yell,"  said  Prudence,  picking  up  the  frag- 
ments of  the  broken  scaldino.  "  I  don't  quite  know 
why  we  did." 

"  Never  mind  why-ing,  but  get  supper,"  said  Gran- 
mar.  "  Then  go  down  on  your  knees  and  thank  the 
Virgin  for  giving  us  such  a  merciful,  mild  old  man  as 
Pietro.  You  brought  on  his  stroke ;  but  what  did  he 
do  ?  He  just  took  what  you  gave  him,  and  went  away 
so  forgivingly — the  soul  of  a  dove,  the  spice-cake  soul !" 

In  January,  the  short,  sharp  winter  of  Italy  had  pos- 
session of  Assisi. 

One  day  towards  the  last  of  the  month  a  bitter  wind 
was  driving  through  the  bleak,  stony  little  street,  send- 
ing clouds  of  gritty,  frozen  dust  before  it.  The  dark, 
fireless  dwellings  were  colder  than  the  outside  air,  and 
the  people,  swathed  in  heavy  layers  of  clothing,  to  which 
all  sorts  of  old  cloaks  and  shawls  and  mufflers  had  been 
added,  were  standing  about  near  the  open  doors  of  their 
shops  and  dwellings,  various  prominences  under  apron 
or  coat  betraying  the  hidden  scaldino,  the  earthen  dish 


» THE    FRONT    YARD  31 

which  Italians  tightly  hug  in  winter  with  the  hope  that 
the  few  coals  it  contains  will  keep  their  benumbed  fin- 
gers warm.  All  faces  were  reddened  and  frost-bitten. 
The  hands  of  the  children  who  were  too  young  to  hold 
a  scaldino  were  purple-black. 

Prudence  Guadagni,  with  her  great  basket  strapped 
on  her  back,  came  along,  receiving  but  two  or  three 
greetings  as  she  passed.  Few  knew  her;  fewer  still 
liked  her,  for  was  she  not  a  foreigner  and  a  pagan  ? 
Besides,  what  could  you  do  with  a  woman  who  drank 
water,  simple  water,  like  a  toad,  and  never  touched  wine 
— a  woman  who  did  not  like  oil,  good,  sweet,  wholesome 
oil !  Tonio's  children  were  much  commiserated  for  hav- 
ing fallen  into  such  hands. 

Prudence  was  dressed  as  she  had  been  in  September, 
save  that  she  now  wore  woollen  stockings  and  coarse 
shoes,  and  tightly  pinned  round  her  spare  person  a  large 
shawl.  This  shawl  (she  called  it  "  my  Highland  shawl") 
had  come  with  her  from  America  ;  it  was  green  in  hue, 
plaided  ;  she  thought  it  still  very  handsome.  Her  step 
was  not  as  light  as  it  had  been ;  rheumatism  had  crip- 
pled her  sorely. 

As  she  left  the  town  and  turned  up  the  hill  towards 
home,  some  one  who  had  been  waiting  there  joined  her. 
"  Is  that  you,  Bepper  ?  Were  you  coming  up  to  the 
house  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Beppa,  showing  her  white  teeth  in 
a  smile.  "I'm  bringing  you  some  news,  Denza." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  leave 
your  place  f ' 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  it,  and  that's  my  news :  I'm  go- 
ing to  be  married." 

"  My  !  it's  sudden,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Prudence,  stopping. 


32  THE    FRONT   YARD 

"Giuseppe  doesn't  think  it's  sudden,"  said  Beppa, 
laughing  and  tossing  lier  head ;  "  he  thinks  I've  been 
ages  making  up  my  mind.  Come  on,  Denza,  do  ;  it's 
so  cold  !" 

"  I  don't  know  Giuseppe,  do  I  ?"  said  Prudence, 
trudging  on  again  ;  "  I  don't  remember  the  name." 

"  No;  I've  never  brought  him  up  to  the  house.  But 
the  boys  know  him  —  Paolo  and  Pasquale  ;  Augusto, 
too.  He's  well  off,  Giuseppe  is ;  he's  got  beautiful  fur- 
niture. He's  a  first-rate  mason,  and  gets  good  wages, 
so  I  sha'n't  have  to  work  any  more — I  mean  go  out  to 
work  as  I  do  now." 

"  Bepper,  do  you  like  him  ?"  said  Prudence,  stopping 
again.  She  took  hold  of  the  girl's  wrist  and  held  it 
tightly. 

"  Of  course  I  like  him,"  said  Beppa,  freeing  herself. 
"  How  cold  your  hands  are,  Denza — ugh !" 

"  You  ain't  marrying  him  for  his  furniture  1  You 
love  him  for  himself  —  and  better  than  any  one 
else  in  the  whole  world?"  Prudence  went  on,  sol- 
emnly. 

"  Oh,  how  comical  you  do  look,  standing  there  talk- 
ing about  love,  with  your  white  hair  and  your  great  big 
basket!"  said  Beppa,  breaking  into  irrepressible  laugh- 
ter. The  cold  had  not  made  her  hideous,  as  it  makes  so 
many  Italians  hideous  ;  her  face  was  not  empurpled,  her 
fine  features  were  not  swollen.  She  looked  handsome. 
What  was  even  more  attractive  on  such  a  day,  she 
looked  warm.  As  her  merriment  ceased,  a  sudden 
change  came  over  her.  "  Sainted  Maria !  she  doubts 
whether  I  love  him  !  Love  him  ?  Why,  you  poor  old 
woman,  I'd  die  for  him  to-morrow.  I'd  cut  myself  in 
pieces  for  him  this  minute."  Her  great  black  eyes 


THE    FRONT    YARD  33 

gleamed  ;  the  color  flamed  in  her  oval  cheeks ;  she  gave 
a  rich,  angry  laugh. 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  her,  and  Prudence  did 
not  doubt.  "  Well,  I'm  right  down  glad,  Bepper,"  she 
said,  in  a  softened  tone — "  right  down  glad,  my  dear." 
She  was  thinking  of  her  own  love  for  the  girl's  father. 

"  I  was  coming  up,"  continued  Beppa,  "because  I 
thought  I'd  better  talk  it  over  with  you." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Prudence,  cordially.  "  A  girl 
can't  get  married  all  alone ;  nobody'  ever  heard  of 
that." 

"  I  sha'n't  be  much  alone,  for  Giuseppe's  family's  a 
very  big  one  ;  too  big,  I  tell  him — ten  brothers  and 
sisters.  But  they're  all  well  off,  that's  one  comfort. 
Of  course  I  don't  want  to  shame  'em." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Prudence,  assenting  again. 
Then,  with  the  awakened  memories  still  stirring,  in  her 
heart :  "  It's  a  pity  your  father  isn't  here  now,"  she  said, 
in  a  moved  tone  ;  "  he'd  have  graced  a  wedding,  Bepper, 
he  was  so  handsome."  She  seldom  spoke  of  Tonio; 
the  subject  was  too  sacred  ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  might  venture  a  few  words  to  this  his  daughter  on 
the  eve  of  her  own  marriage. 

"  Yes,  it's  a  pity,  I  suppose,"  answered  Beppa.  "  Still, 
he  would  have  been  an  old  man  now.  And  'tain't  likely 
he  would  have  had  a  good  coat  either — that  is,  not  such 
a  one  as  I  should  call  good." 

"Yes,  he  would;  I'd  have  made  him  one,"  responded 
Prudence,  with  a  spark  of  anger.  "  This  whole  basket's 
full  of  coats  now." 

"  I  know  you're  wonderful  clever  with  your  needle," 
said  the  girl,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  basket  that 
weighed  down  her  step-mother's  shoulders.  "  I  can't 


34  THE    KROMT    YAKD 

tliink  how  you  can  sew  so  steadily,  year  in,  year  out ;  I 
never  could." 

"  Well,  I've  had  to  get  stronger  spectacles, "Prudence 
confessed.  "  And  they  wouldn't  take  my  old  ones  in 
exchange,  neither,  though  they  were  perfectly  good." 

"  They're  robbers,  all  of  them,  at  that  shop,"  com- 
mented Beppa,  agreeingly. 

"  Now,  about  your  clothes,  Bepper — when  are  you 
going  to  begin  ?  I  suppose  you'll  come  home  for  a 
while,  so  as  to  have  time  to  do  'em ;  I  can  help  you 
some,  and  Nounce  too  ;  Nounce  can  sew  a  little." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I'll  come  home  ;  'twouldn't  pay 
me.  About  the  clothes — I'm  going  to  buy  'em." 

"  They  won't  be  half  so  good,"  Prudence  began. 
Then  she  stopped.  "  I'm  very  glad  you've  got  the 
money  laid  up,  my  dear,"  she  said,  commendingly. 

"  Oh,  but  I  haven't,"  answered  Beppa,  laughing.  "  I 
want  to  borrow  it  of  you ;  that  is  what  I  came  up  for 
to-day — to  tell  you  about  it." 

Prudence,  her  heart  still  softened,  looked  at  the 
handsome  girl  with  gentle  eyes.  "  Why,  of  course 
I'll  lend  it  to  you,  Bepper,"  she  said.  "  How  much  do 
you  want  ?" 

"  All  you've  got  won't  be  any  too  much,  I  reckon," 
answered  Beppa,  with  pride.  "  I  shall  have  to  have 
things  nice,  you  know  •  I  don't  want  to  shame  'em." 

"  I've  got  twenty-live  francs,"  said  Prudence ;  "  I 
mean  I've  got  that  amount  saved  and  put  away  ;  'twas 
for-1— for  a  purpose — something  I  was  going  to  do ;  but 
'tain't  important ;  you  can  have  it  and  welcome."  Her 
old  face,  as  she  said  this,  looked  almost  young  again. 
"  You  see,  I'm  so  glad  to  have  you  happy,"  she  went 
on.  "  And  I  can't  help  thinking — if  your  father  had 


THE    FRONT    YARD  35 

only  lived  —  the  first  wedding  in  his  family  !  How- 
ever, I'll  come — just  as  though  I  was  your  real  mother, 
dear  ;  you  sha'n't  miss  that.  I've  got  my  Sunday  gown, 
and  five  francs  will  buy  me  a  pair  of  new  shoes ;  I  can 
earn  'em  before  the  day  comes,  I  guess." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  can't,"  said  Beppa,  laughing. 

"  Why,  when's  the  wedding  ?  Not  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  I  suppose?" 

"  It's  day  after  to-morrow,"  answered  Beppa.  "  Every- 
thing's bought,  and  all  I  want  is  the  money  to  pay  for 
'em  ;  I  knew  I  could  get  it  of  you." 

"  Dear  rae  !  how  quick  !  And  these  shoes  are  really 
too  bad;  they're  clear  wore  out,  and  all  the  cleaning  in 
the  world  won't  make  'em  decent." 

"Well,  Denza,  why  do  you  want'  to  come?  You 
don't  know  any  of  Giuseppe's  family.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  never  supposed  you'd  care  about  coming,  and  the 
table's  all  planned  out  for  (at  Giuseppe's  sister's),  and 
there  ain't  no  place  for  you." 

"  And  you  didn't  have  one  saved  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  you'd  care  to  come.  You  see 
they're  different,  they're  all  well  off,  and  you  don't  like 
people  who  are  well  off — who  wear  nice  clothes.  You 
never  wanted  us  to  have  nice  clothes,  and  you  like  to  go 
barefoot." 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  Prudence. 

"  'Tany  rate,  one  would  think  you  did  ;  you  always  go 
so  in  summer.  But  even  if  you  had  new  shoes,  none 
of  your  clothes  would  be  good  enough;  that  bonnet, 
now — " 

"  My  bonnet  ?  Surely  my  bonnefs  good  ?"  said  the 
New  England  woman ;  her  voice  faltered,  she  was  struck 
on  a  tender  point. 


36  THE   FRONT   YARD 

"  Well,  people  laugh  at  it,"  answered  Beppa,  com- 
posedly. 

They  had  now  reached  the  house.  "You  go  in," 
said  Prudence  ;  "  I'll  come  presently." 

She  went  round  to  the  wood-shed,  unstrapped  her 
basket,  and  set  it  clown ;  then  she  climbed  up  on  the 
barrel,  removed  the  hay,  and  took  out  her  work-box. 
Emptying  its  contents  into  her  handkerchief,  she  de- 
scended, and,  standing  there,  counted  the  sum — twenty- 
seven  francs,  thirty  centimes.  "  'Twon't  be  any  too 
much ;  she  don't  want  to  shame  'em."  She  made  a 
package  of  the  money  with  a  piece  of  brown  paper, 
and,  entering  the  kitchen,  she  slipped  it  unobserved  into 
Beppa's  hand. 

"  Seems  to  me,"  announced  Granmar  from  the  bed, 
"that  when  a  girl  comes  to  tell  her  own  precious 
Granmar  of  her  wedding,  she  ought  in  decency  to  be 
offered  a  bite  of  something  to  eat.  Any  one  but 
Denza  would  think  so.  Not  that  it's  anything  to 
me." 

"  Very  well,  what  will  you  have  ?"  asked  Prudence, 
wearily.  Freed  from  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  it  could  be 
seen  that  her  once  strong  figure  was  much  bent ;  her 
fingers  had  grown  knotted,  enlarged  at  the  joints,  and 
clumsy ;  years  of  toil  had  not  aged  her  so  much  as 
these  recent  nights — such  long  nights  ! — of  cruel  rheu- 
matic pain. 

Granmar,  in  a  loud  voice,  immediately  named  a  suc- 
culent dish ;  Prudence  began  to  prepare  it.  Before  it 
was  ready,  Jo  Vanny  came  in. 

"  You  knew  I  was  up  here,  and  you've  come  mous- 
ing up  for  an  invitation,"  said  Beppa,  in  high  good- 
humor.  "  I  was  going  to  stop  and  invite  you  on  my 


TlIE    FRONT   YAKD  37 

way  back,  Giovanni ;  there's  a  nice  place  saved  for  you 
at  the  supper." 

"Yes,  I  knew  you  were  up  here,  and  I've  brought 
you  a  wedding-present,"  answered  the  boy.  "I've 
brought  one  for  mamma,  too."  And  he  produced  two 
silk  handkerchiefs,  one  of  bright  colors,  the  other  of 
darker  hue. 

"  Is  the  widow  going  to  be  married,  too  ?"  said  Beppa. 
"  Who  under  heaven's  the  man  ?" 

In  spite  of  the  jesting,  Prudence's  face  showed  that 
she  was  pleased ;  she  passed  her  toil-worn  hand  over 
the  handkerchief  softly,  almost  as  though  its  silk  were 
the  cheek  of  a  little  child.  The  improvised  feast  was 
turned  into  a  festival  now,  and  of  her  own  accord  she 
added  a  second  dish  ;  the  party,  Granmar  at  the  head, 
devoured  unknown  quantities.  When  at  last  there  was 
nothing  left,  Beppa,  carrying  her  money,  departed. 

"  You  know,  Jo  Vanny,  you  hadn't  ought  to  leave 
your  work  so  often,"  said  Prudence,  following  the  boy 
into  the  garden  when  he  took  leave ;  she  spoke  in  an 
expostulating  tone. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  money,"  said  Jo  Vanny,  loftily ;  "  / 
needn't  crawl."  And  carelessly  he  showed  her  a  gold 
piece. 

But  this  sudden  opulence  only  alarmed  the  step- 
mother. ""Why,  where  did  you  get  that?"  she  said, 
anxiously. 

"  How  frightened  you  look !  Your  doubts  offend 
me,"  pursued  Jo  Vanny,  still  with  his  grand  air. 
"  Haven't  I  capacities  ?  —  hasn't  Heaven  sent  me  a 
swarming  genius?  Wasn't  I  the  acclaimed,  even  to 
laurel  crowns,  of  my  entire  class  ?" 

This  was  true :   Jo  Vanny  was  the  only  one  of  To- 


38  THE    FRONT    YAKD 

nio's  children  who  bad  profited  by  the  new  public 
schools. 

"  And  now  what  shall  I  get  for  you,  mamma  ?"  the 
boy  went  on,  his  tone  changing  to  coaxing ;  "  I  want  to 
get  you  something  real  nice;  what  will  you  have?  A 
new  dress  to  go  to  Beppa's  wedding  in  ?" 

For  an  instant  Prudence's  eyes  were  suffused.  "  I 
ain't  going,  Jo  Vanny ;  they  don't  want  me." 

"  They  shall  want  you !"  declared  Jo  Vanny,  fiercely. 

"I  didn't  mean  that;  I  don't  want  to  go  anyhow; 
I've  got  too  much  rheumatism.  You  don't  know,"  she 
went  on,  drawn  out  of  herself  for  a  moment  by  the 
need  of  sympathy — "  you  don't  know  how  it  does  grip 
me  at  night  sometimes,  Jo  Vanny  !  No;  you  go  to  the 
supper,  and  tell  me  all  about  it  afterwards ;  I  like  to 
hear  you  tell  about  things  just  as  well  as  to  go  myself." 

Jo  Vanny  passed  his  hand  through  his  curly  locks 
with  an  air  of  desperation.  "  There  it  is  again — my 
gift  of  relating,  of  narrative ;  it  follows  me  wherever  I 
go.  What  will  become  of  me  with  such  talents  ?  I 
shall  never  die  in  my  bed  ;  nor  have  my  old  age  in 
peace." 

"  You  go  'long !"  said  Prudence  (or  its  Italian  equiva- 
lent). She  gave  him  a  push,  laughing. 

Jo  Vanny  drew  down  his  cap,  put  his  hands  deep  in 
his  pockets,  and  thus  close-reefed  scudded  down  the 
hill  in  the  freezing  wind  to  the  shelter  of  the  streets 
below. 

By  seven  o'clock  Nounce  and  Granmar  were  both 
asleep ;  it  was  the  most  comfortable  condition  in  such 
weather.  Prudence  adjusted  her  lamp,  put  on  her 
strong  spectacles,  and  sat  down  to  sew.  The  great 
brick  stove  gave  out  no  warmth  ;  it  was  not  intended 


THE    FRONT   YARD  39 

to  heat  the  room  ;  its  three  yards  of  length  and  one 
yard  of  breadth  had  apparently  been  constructed  for 
the  purpose  of  holding  and  heating  one  iron  pot.  The 
scaldino  at  her  feet  did  not  keep  her  warm  ;  she  put 
on  her  Highland  shawl.  After  a  while,  as  her  head 
(scantily  covered  with  thin  white  hair)  felt  the  cold 
also,  she  went  to  get  her  bonnet.  As  she  took  it  from 
the  box  she  remembered  Beppa's  speech,  and  the  pang 
came  back ;  in  her  own  mind  that  bonnet  had  been  the 
one  link  that  still  united  her  with  her  old  Ledham  re- 
spectability, the  one  possession  that  distinguished  her 
from  all  these  "  papish "  peasants,  with  their  bare 
heads  and  frowzy  hair.  It  was  not  new,  of  course,  as 
it  had  come  with  her  from  home.  But  what  signified 
an  old-fashioned  shape  in  a  community  where  there 
were  no  shapes  of  any  kind,  new  or  old  ?  At  least  it 
was  always  a  bonnet.  She  put  it  on,  even  now  from 
habit  pulling  out  the  strings  carefully,  and  pinning  the 
loops  on  each  side  of  her  chin.  Then  she  went  back 
and  sat  down  to  her  work  again. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Granmar  woke.  "  Yam  I  how  cold 
my  legs  are!  Denza,  are  you  there?  You  give  me 
that  green  shawl  of  yours  directly  ;  precisely,  I  am 
dying." 

Prudence  came  out  from  behind  her  screen,  lamp  in 
hand.  "  I've  got  it  on,  Granmar;  it's  so  cold  setting  up 
sewing.  I'll  get  you  the  blanket  from  my  bed." 

"  I  don't  want  it ;  it's  as  hard  as  a  brick.  You  give 
me  that  shawl ;  if  you've  got  it  on,  it  '11  be  so  much 
the  warmer." 

"  I'll  give  you  my  other  flannel  petticoat,"  suggested 
Prudence. 

"And  I'll  tear  it  into  a  thousand  pieces,"  responded 


40  THE    FRONT   YARD 

Granmar,  viciously.  "  You  give  me  that  shawl,  or  the 
next  time  you  leave  Nounce  alone  here,  she  shall  pay 
for  it." 

Granmar  was  capable  of  frightening  poor  little  Nounce 
into  spasms.  Prudence  took  off  the  shawl  and  spread 
it  over  the  bed,  while  Granmar  grinned  silently. 

Carrying  the  lamp,  Prudence  went  into  the  bedroom 
to  see  what  else  she  could  find  to  put  on.  She  first 
tried. the  blanket  from  her  bed;  but  as  it  was  a  very 
poor  one,  partly  cotton,  it  was  stiff  (as  Granmar  had 
said),  and  would  not  stay  pinned ;  the  motion  of  her 
arms  in  sewing  would  constantly  loosen  it.  In  the  way 
of  wraps,  except  her  shawl,  she  possessed  almost 
nothing ;  so  she  put  on  another  gown  over  the  one  she 
wore,  pinned  her  second  flannel  petticoat  round  her 
shoulders,  and  over  that  a  little  cloak  that  belonged  to 
Nounce ;  then  she  tied  a  woollen  stocking  round  her 
throat,  and  crowned  with  her  bonnet,  and  carrying  the 
blanket  to  put  over  her  knees,  she  returned  to  her  work. 

"  I  declare  I'm  clean  tired  out,"  she  said  to  herself; 
"  my  feet  are  like  ice.  I  wouldn't  sew  any  longer  such 
a  bitter  night  if  it  warn't  that  that  work-box  'ain't  got 
a  thing  in  it.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it  empty.  But 
as  soon  as  I've  got  a  franc  or  two  to  begin  with  again, 
I'll  stop  these  extry  hours." 

But  they  lasted  on  this  occasion  until  two  o'clock. 

"  It  don't  seem  as  if  I'd  ever  known  it  quite  so  baking 
as  it  is  to-night."  It  was  Prudence  who  spoke  ;  she 
spoke  to  Nounce ;  she  must  speak  to  some  one. 

Nounce  answered  with  one  of  her  patient  smiles. 
She  often  smiled  patiently,  as  though  it  were  something 
which  she  was  expected  to  do. 


THE    FRONT    TAKD  41 

Prudence  was  sitting  in  the  wood-shed  resting ;  she 
had  been  down  to  town  to  carry  home  some  work. 
Now  the  narrow  streets  there,  thrown  into  shade  by 
the  high  buildings  on  each  side,  were  a  refuge  from 
the  heat ;  now  the  dark  houses,  like  burrows,  gave 
relief  to  eyes  blinded  by  the  yellow  glare.  It  was  the 
30th  of  August.  From  the  first  day  of  April  the  broad 
valley  and  this  brown  hill  had  simmered  in  the  hot 
light,  which  filled  the  heavens  and  lay  over  the  earth 
day  after  day,  without  a  change,  without  a  cloud,  re- 
lentless, splendid ;  each  month  the  ground  had  grown 
warmer  and  drier,  the  roads  more  white,  more  deep 
in  dust ;  insect  life,  myriad  legged  and  winged,  had 
been  everywhere ;  under  the  stones  lurked  the  scor- 
pions. 

In  former  summers  here  this  never-ending  light,  the 
long  days  of  burning  sunshine,  the  nights  with  the 
persistent  moon,  the  importunate  nightingales,  and  the 
magnificent  procession  of  the  stars  had  sometimes 
driven  the  New  England  woman  almost  mad ;  she  had 
felt  as  if  she  must  bury  her  head  in  the  earth  some- 
where to  find  the  blessed  darkness  again,  to  feel  its 
cool  pressure  against  her  tired  eyes.  But  this  year 
these  things  had  not  troubled  her;  the  possibility  of 
realizing  her  long-cherished  hope  at  last  had  made 
the  time  seem  short,  had  made  the  heat  nothing,  the 
light  forgotten  ;  each  day,  after  fifteen  hours  of  toil, 
she  had  been  sorry  that  she  could  not  accomplish 
more. 

But  she  had  accomplished  much  ;  the  hope  was  now 
almost  a  reality.  "  Nounce,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know 
I'm  'most  too  happy  to  live.  I  shall  have  to  tell  you : 
I've  got  all  the  money  saved  up  at  last,  and  the  men 


43  THE    FRONT    YARD 

are  coming  to-morrow  to  take  away  the  cow-shed. 
Think  of  that !" 

Nounce  thought  of  it ;  she  nodded  appreciatively. 

Prudence  took  the  girl's  slender  hand  in  hers  and 
went  on  :  "  Yes,  to-morrow.  And  it  '11  cost  forty-eight 
francs.  But  with  the  two  francs  for  wine-money  it 
will  come  to  fifty  in  all.  By  this  time  to-morrow  night 
it  will  be  gone  !"  She  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  satis- 
fied sound.  "  I've  got  seventy-five  francs  in  all,  Nounce. 
When  Bepper  married,  of  course  I  knew  I  couldn't  get 
it  done  for  Fourth  of  July.  And  so  I  thought  I'd  try 
for  Thanksgiving — that  is,  Thanksgiving  time  ;  I  never 
know  the  exact  day  now.  Well,  here  it's  only  the  last 
day  of  August,  and  the  cow-shed  will  be  gone  to-mor- 
row. Then  will  come  the  new  fence  ;  and  then  the 
fun,  the  real  fun,  Nounce,  of  laying  out  our  front  yard  ! 
It  '11  have  a  nice  straight  path  down  to  the  gate,  cur- 
rant bushes  in  neat  rows  along  the  sides,  two  big  flow- 
erin'  shrubs,  and  little  flower  beds  bordered  with  box. 
I  tell  you  you  won't  know  your  own  house  when  you 
come  in  a  decent  gate  and  up  a  nice  path  to  the  front 
door  ;  all  these  years  we've  been  slinking  in  and  out  of 
a  back  door,  just  as  though  we  didn't  have  no  front 
one.  I  don't  believe  myself  in  tramping  in  and  out  of 
a  front  door  every  day ;  but  on  Sundays,  now,  when 
we  have  on  our  best  clothes,  we  shall  come  in  and  out 
respectably,  You'll  feel  like  another  person,  Nounce ; 
and  I'm  sure  /  shall — I  shall  feel  like  Ledham  again — 
my  !"  And  Prudence  actually  laughed. 

Still  holding  Nounce's  hand,  she  went  round  to  the 
fron't  of  the  house. 

The  cow-shed  was  shedding  forth  its  usual  odors ; 
Prudence  took  a  stone  and  struck  a  great  resounding 


"STILL  HOLDING  NOUNCE'S  HAND,  SHE  WENT  ROUND  TO  THE  FRONT  OF 
THE  HOUSE  " 


THE    FRONT   YARD  43 

blow  on  its  side.  She  struck  with  so  much  force  that 
she  hurt  her  hand.  "  Never  mind — it  done  me  good  !" 
she  said,  laughing  again. 

She  took  little  Nounce  by  the  arm  and  led  her  down 
the  descent.  "  I  shall  have  to  make  the  front  walk  all 
over,"  she  explained.  "And  here '11  be  the  gate,  down 
here — a  swing  one.  And  the  path  will  go  from  here 
straight  up  to  the  door.  Then  the  fence  will  go  along 
here — palings,  you  know,  painted  white ;  a  good  clean 
American  white,  with  none  of  these  yellows  in  it,  you 
may  depend.  And  over  there — and  there — along  the 
sides,  the  fence  will  be  just  plain  boards,  notched  at 
the  top;  the  currant  bushes  will  run  along  there.  In 
the  middle,  here — and  here — will  be  the  big  flowerin' 
shrubs.  And  then  the  little  flower-beds  bordered  with 
box.  Oh,  Nounce,  I  can't  hardly  believe  it — it  will  be 
so  beautiful !  I  really  can't  !" 

Nounce  waited  a  mome-nt.  Then  she  came  closer  to 
her  step-mother,  and  after  looking  quickly  all  about 
her,  whispered,  "  You  needn't  if  you  don't  want  to  ; 
there's  here  yet  to  believe." 

"  It's  just  as  good  as  here,"  answered  Prudence, 
almost  indignantly.  "  I've  got  the  money,  and  the 
bargain's  all  made ;  nothing  could  be  surer  than 
that." 

The  next  morning  Nounce  was  awakened  by  the  touch 
of  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  It  was  her  step-mother. 
"  I've  got  to  go  down  to  town,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"You  must  try  to  get  Granmar's  breakfast  yourself, 
Nounce;  do  it  as  well  as  you  can.  And — and  I've 
changed  my  mind  about  the  front  yard ;  it  '11  be  done 
some  time,  but  not  now.  And  we  won't  talk  any  more 
about  it  for  the  present,  Nounce ;  that  '11  please  me 


44  THE    FRONT    YARD 

most ;  and  you're  a  good  girl,  and  al \vays  want  to  please 
me,  I  know." 

She  kissed  her,  and  went  out  softly. 

In  October  three  Americans  came  to  Assisi.  Two 
came  to  sketch  the  Giotto  frescos  in  the  church  of  St. 
Francis;  the  third  came  for  her  own  entertainment; 
she  read  Symonds,  and  wandered  about  exploring  the 
ancient  town. 

One  day  her  wanderings  led  her  to  the  little  Guadagni 
house  on  the  height.  The  back  gate  was  open,  and 
through  it  she  saw  an  old  woman  staggering,  then  fall- 
ing, under  the  weight  of  a  sack  of  potatoes  which  she 
was  trying  to  carry  on  her  back. 

The  American  rushed  in  to  help  her.  "  It's  much  too 
heavy  for  you,"  she  said,  indignantly,  after  she  had 
given  her  assistance.  "  Oh  dear — I  mean,  e  troppo  grave" 
she  added,  elevating  her  voice. 

"  Are  you  English  ?"  said  the  old  woman.  "  I'm  an 
American  myself ;  but  I  ain't  deef.  The  sack  warn't 
too  heavy ;  it's  only  that  I  ain't  so  strong  as  I  used  to 
be — it's  perfectly  redeculous  !" 

"  You're  not  strong  at  all,"  responded  the  stranger, 
still  indignantly,  looking  at  the  wasted  old  face  and 
trembling  hands. 

A  week  later  Prudence  was  in  bed,  and  an  American 
nurse  was  in  charge. 

This  nurse,  whose  name  was  Baily,  was  a  calm  woman 
with  long  strong  arms,  monotonous  voice,  and  distinct 
Xew  England  pronunciation  ;  her  Italian  (which  was 
grammatically  correct)  was  delivered  in  the  vowels  of 
Vermont. 

One  day,  soon  after  her  arrival,  she  remarked  to  Gran- 


THE    FRONT   YARD  45 

mar,  "  That  yell  of  yours,  now — that  yam — is  a  very  un- 
usual thing." 

"  My  sufferings  draw  it  from  me,"  answered  Gran- 
mar,  flattered  by  the  adjective  used.  "  I'm  a  very  pious 
woman  ;  I  don't  want  to  swear." 

"  I  think  I  have  never  heard  it  equalled,  except  pos- 
sibly in  lunatic  asylums,"  Marilla  Baily  went  on.  "  I 
have  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  lunatic  asylums  ;  I  air 
what  is  called  an  expert ;  that  is,  I  find  out  people  who 
are  troublesome,  and  send  them  there  ;  I  never  say 
much  about  it,  but  just  make  my  observations ;  then, 
when  I've  got  the  papers  out,  whiff  ! — off  they  go." 

Granmar  put  her  hand  over  her  mouth  apprehensively, 
and  surveyed  her  in  silence.  From  that  time  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  kitchen  was  remarkably  quiet. 

Marilla  Baily  had  come  from  Florence  at  the  bidding 
of  the  American  who  had  helped  to  carry  the  potatoes. 
This  American  was  staying  at  the  Albergo  del  Subasio 
with  her  friends  who  were  sketching  Giotto ;  but  she 
spent  most  of  her  time  with  Prudence  Wilkin. 

"  You  see,  I  minded  it  because  it  was  him,"  Prudence 
explained  to  her  one  day,  at  the  close  of  a  long  conver- 
sation. "  For  I'd  always  been  so  fond  of  the  boy ;  I 
had  him  first  when  he  warn't  but  two  years  old — just 
a  baby — and  so  purty  and  cunning !  He  always  called 
me  mamma — the  only  one  of  the  children,  'cept  poor 
Nounce  there,  that  really  seemed  to  care  for  me.  And 
I  cared  everything  for  him.  I  went  straight  down  to 
town  and  hunted  all  over.  But  he  warn't  to  be  found. 
I  tried  it  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  not  saying  what  I 
wanted,  of  course  ;  but  nobody  knew  where  he  was,  and 
at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  that  he'd  gone  away.  For 
three  weeks  I  waited ;  I  was  almost  dead ;  I  couldn'tr 


46  THE    FKONT    YARD 

do  nothing ;  I  felt  as  if  I  was  broke  in  two,  and  only 
the  skin  held  me  together.  Every  morning  I'd  say  to 
myself, '  There'll  certainly  come  a  letter  to-day,  and  he'll 
tell  me  all  about  it.'  But  the  letter  didn't  come,  and 
didn't  come.  From  the  beginning,  of  course,  I  knew 
it  was  him — I  couldn't  help  but  know  ;  Jo  Vanny  was 
the  only  person  in  the  whole  world  that  knew  where  it 
was.  For  I'd  showed  it  to  him  one  day — the  work-box,  I 
mean — and  let  him  put  it  back  in  the  hole  behind  the 
hay — 'twas  the  time  I  took  the  money  out  for  Patro. 
At  last  I  did  get  a  letter,  and  he  said  as  how  he'd  meant 
to  put  it  back  the  very  next  morning,  sure.  But  some- 
thing had  happened,  so  he  couldn't,  and  so  he'd  gone 
away.  And  now  he  was  working  just  as  hard  as  he 
could,  he  said,  so  as  to  be  able  to  pay  it  back  soon ;  he 
hardly  played  on  his  mandolin  at  all  now,  he  said,  he 
was  working  so  hard.  You  see,  he  wasn't  bad  himself, 
poor  little  fellow,  but  he  was  led  away  by  bad  men ; 
gambling's  an  awful  thing,  once  you  get  started  in  it, 
and  he  was  sort  of  drove  to  take  that  money,  meaning 
all  the  while  to  pay  it  back.  Well,  of  course  I  felt  ever 
so  much  better  just  as  soon  as  I  got  that  letter.  And  I 
began  to  work  again.  But  I  didn't  get  on  as  well  as  I'd 
oughter ;  I  can't  understand  why.  That  day,  now,  when 
I  first  saw  you — when  you  ran  in  to  help  me — I  hadn't 
been  feeling  sick  at  all ;  there  warn't  no  sense  in  my 
tumbling  down  that  way  all  of  a  sudden." 

One  lovely  afternoon  in  November  Prudence's  bed 
was  carried  out  to  the  front  of  the  dark  little  house. 

The  cow-shed  was  gone.  A  straight  path,  freshly 
paved,  led  down  to  a  swing  gate  set  in  a  new  paling 
fence,  flower  beds  bordered  the  path,  and  in  the  centre 
of  the  open  spaces  on  each  side  there  was  a  large  rose 


THE    FRONT    YARD  47 

bush.  The  fence  was  painted  a  glittering  white;  there 
had  been  an  attempt  at  grass  ;  corrant  bushes  in  straight 
rows  bordered  the  two  sides. 

Prudence  lay  looking  at  it  all  in  peaceful  silence. 
"  It's  mighty  purty,"  she  said  at  last,  with  grateful  em- 
phasis. "  It's  everything  I  planned  to  have,  and  a  great 
deal  nicer  than  I  could  have  done  it  myself,  though  I 
thought  about  it  goodness  knows  how  many  years  !" 

"  I'm  not  surprised  that  you  thought  about  it,"  the 
American  answered.  "  It  was  the  view  you  were  long- 
ing for — fancy  its  having  been  cut  off  so  long  by  that 
miserable  stable !  But  now  you  have  it  in  perfection." 

"You  mean  the  view  of  the  garden,"  said  Prudence. 
"  There  wasn't  much  to  look  at  before ;  but  now  it's 
real  sweet." 

"  No  ;  I  mean  the  great  landscape  all  about  us  here,' 
responded  the  American,  surprised.  She  paused.  Then 
seeing  that  Prudence  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  she  began  to 
enumerate  its  features,  to  point  them  out  with  her  fold- 
ed parasol.  "That  broad  Urabrian  plain,  Prudence, 
with  those  tall  slender  trees  ;  the  other  towns  shining 
on  their  hills,  like  Perugia  over  there  ;  the  gleam  of  the 
river;  the  velvety  blue  of  the  mountains;  the  color  of 
it  all — I  do  believe  it  is  the  very  loveliest  view  in  the 
whole  world  !" 

"I  don't  know  as  I've  ever  noticed  it  much  —  the 
view,"  Prudence  answered.  She  turned  her  eyes  tow- 
ards the  horizon  for  a  moment.  "  You  see  I  was  always 
thinking  about  my  front  yard." 

"  The  front  yard  is  very  nice  now,"  said  the  Ameri- 
can. "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  pleased ;  we  couldn't  get 
snowballs  or  Missouri  currant,  so  we  had  to  take  roses." 
She  paused ;  but  she  could  not  give  up  the  subject  with- 


48  THE    FRONT    YARD 

out  one  more  attempt.  "  You  have  probably  noticed 
the  view  without  being  aware  of  it,"  she  went  on  ;  "  it 
is  so  beautiful  that  you  must  have  noticed  it.  If  you 
should  leave  it  you  would  find  yourself  missing  it  very 
much,  I  dare  say." 

"  Mebbe,"  responded  Prudence.  "  Still,  I  ain't  so 
sure.  The  truth  is,  I  don't  care  much  for  these  Eyetal- 
ian  views ;  it  seems  to  me  a  poor  sort  of  country,  and 
always  did."  Then,  wishing  to  be  more  responsive  to 
the  tastes  of  this  new  friend,  if  she  could  be  so  honest- 
ly, she  added,  "  But  I  like  views,  as  a  general  thing ; 
there  was  a  very  purty  view  from  Sage's  Hill,  I  re- 
member." 

"  Sage's  Hill  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  the  hill  near  Ledham.  You  told  me  you  knew 
Ledham.  You  could  see  all  the  fields  and  medders  of 
Josiah  Strong's  farm,  and  Deacon  Mayberry's  too;  per- 
fectly level,  and  not  a  stone  in  'em.  And  the  turnpike 
for  miles  and  miles,  with  three  toll-gates  in  sight.  Then, 
on  the  other  side,  there  were  the  factories  to  make  it 
lively.  It  was  a  sweet  view." 

A  few  days  afterwards  she  said  :  "  People  tell  us  that 
we  never  get  what  we  want  in  this  world,  don't  they  ? 
But  I'm  fortunate.  I  think  I've  always  been  purty  fort- 
unate. I  got  my  front  yard,  after  all." 

A  week  later,  when  they  told  her  that  death  was  near, 
"  My  !  I'd  no  idea  I  was  so  sick  as  that,"  she  whispered. 
Then,  looking  at  them  anxiously,  "  What  '11  become  of 
Nounce  ?" 

They  assured  her  that  Nounce  should  be  provided  for. 
"  You  know  you  have  to  be  sorter  patient  with  her,"  she 
explained;  "but  she's  growing  quicker-witted  everyday." 


THE    FRONT   TAED  49 

Later,  "  I  should  like  so  much  to  see  Jo  Vanny,"  she 
murmured,  longingly ;  "  but  of  course  I  can't.  You 
must  get  Bepper  to  send  him  my  love,  my  dearest,  dear- 
est love." 

Last  of  all,  as  her  dulled  eyes  turned  from  the  little 
window  and  rested  upon  her  friend :  "  It  seems  a  pity — 
But  perhaps  I  shall  find — " 

4 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE 


OLD  Mrs.  Preston  had  not  been  able  to  endure  the 
hotel  at  Salerno.  She  had  therefore  taken,  for  two 
months,  this  house  on  the  shore. 

"  I  might  as  well  be  here  as  anywhere,  saddled  as  I 
am  with  the  Abercrombies,"  she  remarked  to  her  cousin, 
Isabella  Holland.  "  Arthur  may  really  do  something : 
I  have  hopes  of  Arthur.  But  as  to  Rose,  Hildegarde, 
and  Dorothea,  I  shall  plainly  have  to  drag  them  about 
with  me,  and  drag  them  about  with  me,  year  after  year, 
in  the  hope  that  the  constant  seeing  of  so  many  straight 
statues,  to  say  nothing  of  pictures,  may  at  last  teach 
them  to  have  spines.  Here  they  are  now ;  did  you  ever 
see  such  shoulders,  or  rather  such  a  lack  of  them  ?  Hil- 
degarde, child,  come  here  a  moment,"  she  added,  as  the 
three  girls  drew  near.  "  I  have  an  idea.  Don't  you 
think  you  could  hold  your  shoulders  up  a  little  ?  Try  it 
now  ;  put  them  up  high,  as  though  you  were  shrugging 
them ;  and  expand  your  chest  too ;  you  mustn't  cramp 
that.  There  ! — that  is  what  I  mean  ;  don't  you  think, 
my  dear,  that  you  could  keep  yourself  so  ?" 

Hildegarde,  with  her  shoulders  elevated  and  her  long 
chin  run  out,  began  to  blush  painfully,  until  her  milk- 
white  face  was  dyed  red.  "  I  am  afraid  I  could  not 


NEPTUNE'S  SHOKE  51 

keep  myself  so  long,  aunt,"  she  answered,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Never  mind  ;  let  them  down,  then :  it's  of  no  use," 
commented  Mrs.  Preston,  despairingly.  "Go  and  dance 
for  twenty-five  minutes  in  the  upper  hall,  all  of  you. 
And  dance  as  hard  as  you  can." 

The  three  girls,  moving  lifelessly,  went  down  the 
echoing  vaulted  corridor.  They  were  sisters,  the  eldest 
not  quite  sixteen,  all  three  having  the  same  lank  figures 
with  sloping  shoulders  and  long  thin  throats,  and  the 
same  curiously  white,  milk-white  skin.  Orphans,  they 
had  been  sent  with  their  brother  Arthur  to  their  aunt, 
Mrs.  Octavia  Preston,  five  years  before,  having  come  to 
her  from  one  of  the  West  India  Islands,  their  former 
home. 

"Those  girls  have  done  nothing  but  eat  raw  meat, 
take  sea  baths,  and  practise  calisthenics  and  dancing 
ever  since  I  first  took  charge  of  them,"  Mrs.  Preston 
was  accustomed  to  remark  to  intimate  friends ;  "  yet 
look  at  them  now  !  Of  course  I  could  not  send  them 
to  school — they  would  only  grow  lanker.  So  I  take 
them  about  with  me  patiently,  governess  and  all." 

But  Mrs.  Preston  was  not  very  patient. 

The  three  girls  having  disappeared,  Isabella  thought 
the  occasion  favorable  for  a  few  words  upon  another 
subject.  "  Do  you  like  to  have  Paulie  riding  so  often 
-with  Mr.  Ash,  Cousin  Octavia?  I  can't  help  being  dis- 
tressed about  it." 

"  Don't  be  Mistering  John  Ash,  I  beg ;  no  one  in  the 
world  but  you,  Isabella,  would  dream  of  doing  it — a 
great  swooping  creature  like  that  —  the  horseman  in 
'  Heliodorus.' " 

"  You  mean  Raphael's  fresco  ?     Oh,  Cousin  Octavia, 


52  NEPTUNE'S  SHOBE 

how  can  you  think  so  ?  Raphael  —  such  a  religious 
painter,  and  John  Ash,  who  looks  so  dissipated  !" 

"  Did  I  say  lie  didn't  look  dissipated  ?  I  said  he 
could  ride.  John  Ash  is  one  of  the  most  dissipated- 
looking  youths  I  have  ever  met."  pursued  Mrs.  Preston, 
comfortably.  "  The  clever  sort,  not  the  brutal." 

"  And  you  don't  mind  Paulie's  being  with  him  ?" 

"  Pauline  Euphemia  Graham  has  been  married,  Pau- 
line Euphemia  Graham  is  a  widow  ;  it  ill  becomes  those 
•who  have  not  had  a  tithe  of  her  experience  (though 
they  may  be  much  older)  to  set  themselves  up  as  judges 
of  her  conduct." 

Mrs.  Preston  had  a  deep  rich  voice,  and  slow  enun- 
ciation ;  her  simplest  sentences,  therefore,  often  took 
on  the  tone  of  declamation,  and  when  she  held  forth  at 
any  length,  it  was  like  a  Gregorian  chant. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  judge,  Pm  sure,"  said  Isa- 
bella ;  "  I  only  meant  that  it  would  be  such  a  pity — 
such  a  bad  match  for  dear  Paulie  in  case  she  should 
be  thinking  of  marrying  again.  Even  if  one  were  sure 
of  John  Ash — and  certainly  the  reverse  is  the  case — 
look  at  his  mother  !  I  am  interested,  naturally,  as 
Paulie  is  my  first  cousin,  you  know." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  your  first  cousin's  becoming 
Mrs.  John  Ash  might  endanger  your  own  matrimonial 
prospects  ?" 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  said  poor  little  Isabella,  shrinking 
back  to  her  embroidery.  She  was  fifty,  small,  plain, 
extremely  good.  In  her  heart  she  wished  that  people 
would  take  the  tone  that  Isabella  had  "  never  cared  to 
marry." 

"  Here  is  Pauline  now,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Preston,  as 
a  figure  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 


NEPTUNE  S    SHORE  53 

Isabella  was  afraid  to  add,  "  And  going  out  to  ride 
again  !"  But  it  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Graham  intend- 
ed to  ride  :  she  wore  her  habit. 

"  I  wish  you  were  going,  too,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Pres- 
ton, pausing  in  the  doorway  with  her  skirt  uplifted. 
Her  graceful  figure  in  the  closely  fitting  habit  was  a 
pleasant  sight  to  see. 

"  Thanks,  my  dear ;  I  should  enjoy  going  very  much 
if  I  were  a  little  more  slender." 

"You  are  magnificent  as  you  are,"  responded  Pauline, 
admiringly. 

And  in  truth  the  old  lady  was  very  handsome,  with 
her  thick  silver  hair,  fine  eyes  with  heavy  black  eye- 
brows, and  well-cut  aquiline  profile.  Her  straight  back, 
noble  shoulders,  and  beautiful  hands  took  from  her  mas- 
sive form  the  idea  of  unwieldiness. 

"  Isabella — you  who  are  always  posing  for  enthusi- 
asm— when  will  you  learn  to  say  anything  so  genuine 
as  that?"  chanted  Cousin  Octavia's  deep  voice.  "  I  men- 
tion it  merely  on  your  account,  as  a  question  of  styles 
conversational.  Here  is  Isabella,  who  thinks  John  Ash 
so  dissipated,  Pauline ;  she  fears  that  it  may  injure  the 
family  connection  if  you  marry  him.  I  have  told  her 
that  no  one  here  was  thinking  of  marrying  or  of  giving 
in  marriage  ;  if  she  has  such  ideas,  she  must  have 
brought  them  with  her  from  Florence.  There  are  a 
great  many  old  maids  in  Florence." 

"  I  can  only  answer  for  myself :  I  certainly  am  not 
thinking  of  marriage,"  said  Pauline,  laughing,  as  she 
went  down  the  stairs. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Octavia,  you  have  set  Pauline  against 
me  !"  exclaimed  Isabella,  in  distress. 

"  Don't  be  an  idiot ;  Pauline  isn't  against  any  one  : 


54  NEPTUNE'S  SHOKE 

she  doesn't  care  enough  about  it.  She  is  a  good  deal 
for  herself,  I  acknowledge  ;  but  she's  not  against  any 
one.  Pauline  bears  no  malice ;  she  is  delightfully  un- 
certain ;  she  hasn't  a  theory  in  the  world  to  live  up  to ; 
in  addition,  to  have  her  in  the  house  is  like  going  to 
the  play  all  the  time — she  is  such  a  stupendous  liar !" 

Isabella,  who  was  punching  round  holes  in  a  linen 
band  with  an  implement  of  ivory,  stopped  punching. 
"  I  am  sure  poor  Paulie — " 

"  Am  I  to  sit  through  a  defence  of  Pauline  Euphemia 
Graham,  born  Preston,  at  your  hands,  Isabella?  Pray 
spare  me  that.  I  am  much  more  Pauline's  friend  than 
you  ever  can  be.  Did  I  say  that  she  lied  ?  Nature  has 
given  her  a  face  that  speaks  one  language  and  a  mind 
that  speaks  another ;  she,  of  course,  follows  the  lan- 
guage of  her  mind  ;  but  others  follow  that  of  her  face, 
and  this  makes  the  play.  Eh  ! — what  noise  is  that  ?" 

"  We  have  come  to  pay  you  a  visit,  Aunt  Octavia," 
called  a  boyish  voice  ;  its  owner  was  evidently  mount- 
ing the  stairs  three  at  a  time :  now  he  was  in  the  room. 
"  They're  all  down  at  the  door — Freemantle  and  Gates 
and  Beckett.  And  what  do  you  think  —  we've  got 
Griff  !" 

"  Griff  himself  ?"  said  Aunt  Octavia,  benevolently, 
as  the  lad,  with  a  very  pretty  gallantry,  bent  to  kiss 
her  hand. 

"  Yes,  Griff  himself ;  you  may  be  sure  we're  draw- 
ing like  mad.  Griff  has  come  down  from  Paris  for 
only  three  weeks,  and  he  says  he  will  go  with  us  to 
Psestum,  and  all  about  here — to  Amalfi,  Ravello,  and 
everywhere.  But  of  course  Pa3stum's  the  stunner." 

"  Yes,  of  course  Psestum's  the  stunner,"  repeated 
Aunt  Octavia,  as  if  trying  it  in  Shakespearian  tones. 


NEPTUNE'S  SHOEE  55 

"  I  say,  may  they  come  up  ?"    Arthur  went  on. 

They  came  up  —  three  boys  of  seventeen  and  eigh- 
teen, and  Griffith  Carew,  who  was  ten  years  older.  These 
three  youths,  with  Arthur  Abercrombie,  were  studying 
architecture  at  the  Beaux- Arts,  Paris ;  this  spring  they 
had  given  to  a  tour  in  Italy  for  the  purpose  of  making 
architectural  drawings.  Griffith  Carew  was  also  an  archi- 
tect, but  a  full-fledged  one.  His  indomitable  perse- 
verance and  painstaking  accuracy  caused  all  the  younger 
men  to  respect  him ;  the  American  students  went  fur- 
ther ;  they  were  sure  that  Griff  had  only  to  "  let  himself 
go,"  and  the  United  States  would  bloom  from  end  to 
end  with  City  Halls  of  beauty  unparalleled.  In  the 
mean  time  Griff,  while  waiting  for  the  City  Halls  per- 
haps, was  so  kind-hearted  and  jovial  and  unselfish  that 
they  all  adored  him  for  that  too.  It  was  a  master-treat, 
therefore,  to  Arthur  and  his  companions,  to  have  their 
paragon  to  themselves  for  a  while  on  this  temple-haunt- 
ed shore. 

Griff  sat  down  placidly,  and  began  to  talk  to  Aunt 
Octavia.  He  was  of  medium  height,  his  figure  heavy 
and  strong ;  he  had  a  dark  complexion  and  thick  feat- 
ures, lighted  by  pleasant  brown  eyes,  and  white  teeth 
that  gleamed  when  he  smiled. 

Aunt  Octavia  was  gracious  to  Griff ;  she  had  always 
distinguished  him  from  "Arthur's  horde."  This  was 
not  in  the  least  because  the  horde  considered  him  the 
architect  of  the  future.  Aunt  Octavia  did  not  care 
much  about  the  future ;  her  tests  were  those  of  the 
past.  She  had  known  Griff's  mother,  and  the  persons 
whose  mothers  Aunt  Octavia  had  known — ah,  that  was 
a  certificate  ! 


56  NEPTUNE  S    SHORE 


II 

In  the  meanwhile  Pauline  Graham  had  left  Salerno 
behind  her,  and  was  flying  over  the  plain  with  John 
Ash. 

Pauline  all  her  life  had  had  a  passion  for  riding  at 
breakneck  speed  ;  one  of  the  explanations  of  her  fancy 
for  Ash  lay  in  the  fact  that,  having  the  same  passion 
himself,  he  enabled  her  to  gratify  her  own.  "Whenever 
she  had  felt  in  the  mood  during  the  past  five  weeks 
there  had  always  been  a  horse  and  a  mounted  escort 
at  her  door.  Upon  this  occasion,  after  what  they  called 
an  inspiring  ride  (to  any  one  else  a  series  of  mad  gal- 
lops), they  had  dismounted  at  a  farm-house,  and  leav- 
ing their  horses,  had  strolled  down  to  the  shore.  It 
was  a  lovely  day,  towards  the  last  of  March  ;  the  sea, 
of  the  soft  misty  blue  of  the  southern  Mediterranean, 
stretched  out  before  them  without  a  sail ;  at  their  feet 
the  same  clear  water  laved  the  shore  in  long  smooth 
wavelets,  hardly  a  foot  high,  whose  gentle  roll  upon 
the  sands  had  an  indescribably  caressing  sound.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight.  It  is  a  lonely  coast.  Pauline 
stood,  gazing  absently  over  the  blue. 

"  Sit  down  for  a  moment,"  suggested  Ash. 

"  Not  now." 

"  Not  now  ?    When  do  you  expect  to  be  here  again  ?" 

She  came  back  to  the  present,  laughing.  "  True  ; 
but  I  did  not  mean  that ;  I  meant  that  you  were  not 
the  ideal  companion  for  sea-side  musing ;  you  never 
meditate.  I  venture  to  say  you  have  never  quoted 
poetry  in  your  life." 

"  No ;  I  live  my  poetry,"  John  Ash  responded. 


NEPTUNE  S    SUOEE  57 

"  But  for  a  ride  you  are  perfect ;  for  a  rush  over  the 
plain,  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  I  have  never  had  any 
one  approaching  you.  You  are  a  cavalier  of  the  gods." 

"  Have  you  had  many  ?" 

"  Cavaliers  ? — plenty.     Of  the  gods  ? — no." 

"  Plenty !  I  reckon  you  have,"  said  Ash,  half  to 
himself. 

"  Would  you  wish  me  to  have  had  few  ?  You  must 
remember  that  I  have  been  in  many  countries  and  have 
seen  many  peoples.  I  shouldn't  have  appreciated  you 
otherwise  ;  I  should  have  thought  you  dangerous — hor- 
rible !  There  is  Isabella,  who  has  not  been  in  many 
countries ;  Isabella  is  sure  that  you  are  '  so  dissipated.'  " 

"  Dissipated  ! — mild  term  !" 

"  Then  you  acknowledge  it  ?" 

"  Freely." 

Pauline  looked  about  for  a  rock  of  the  right  height, 
and  finding  one,  seated  herself,  and  began  to  draw  off 
her  gloves.  "  Some  time — in  some  other  existence — 
will  you  come  and  tell  me  how  it  has  paid  you,  please  ? 
You  are  so  preternaturally  intelligent,  and  you  have 
such  a  will  of  your  own,  that  you  cannot  have  fallen 
into  it  from  stupidity,  as  so  many  do."  Her  gloves 
off,  she  began  to  tighten  the  braids  of  her  hair,  loosened 
by  the  gallop. 

"  It  pays  as  it  goes  ;  it  makes  one  forget  for  a  mo- 
ment the  hideous  tiresomeness  of  existence.  But  you 
put  your  question  off  to  some  other  life ;  you  have  no 
intention,  then,  of  redeeming  me  in  this  ?" 

"  I  shouldn't  succeed.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  no 
influence — " 

"  You  know  I  am  your  slave,"  said  Ash ;  his  voice 
suddenly  deepened. 


58  NEPTUNE  S   SHORE 

"  And  how  mncli  of  a  slave  shall  you  be  to  the  next 
pretty  peasant  girl  you  meet  ?"  Mrs.  Graham  demanded, 
turning  towards  him,  both  hands  still  occupied  with  her 
hair. 

"  I  don't  deny  that.  But  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  subject." 

"  In  one  way  I  know  it  has  not,"  she  answered,  after 
she  had  fastened  the  last  braid  in  its  place  with  a  long 
gold  pin. 

"  How  right  I  was  to  like  you  !  You  understand  of 
yourself  the  thing  that  so  few  women  can  ever  be 
brought  to  comprehend.  Well,  if  you  acknowledge 
that  it  makes  no  difference — I  mean  about  the  peasant 
girls — we're  just  where  we  were ;  I  am  your  slave,  yet 
you  have  no  desire  to  reclaim  me.  I  believe  you  like 
me  better  as  I  am,"  he  added,  abruptly. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  that  you  are  imperti- 
nent?" demanded  Pauline,  with  her  lovely  smile,  that 
always  contradicted  in  its  sweetness  any  apparent  re- 
buke expressed  by  her  words.  "  Do  I  know  what  you 
are  in  reality,  or  care  to  know  ?  I  know  what  you 
seem,  and  what  you  seem  is  admirable,  perfect,  for 
these  rides  of  ours,  the  most  enchanting  rides  I  have 
ever  had." 

"  And  the  rides  are  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  You 
wouldn't  care  for  me  elsewhere  ?" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Pauline,  rising  and  drawing  on  her 
gloves,  "  you  wouldn't  care  for  me.  In  Paris  I  am 
altogether  another  person ;  I  am  not  at  all  as  you  see 
me  here.  In  Paris  you  would  call  me  a  doll.  Come, 
don't  dissect  the  happy  present ;  enjoy  it  as  I  do.  '  He 
only  is  rich  who  owns  the  day,'  and  we  own  this — for 
our  ride. 


"  '  YOU    KNOW    I    AM    YOUR   SLAVE  '  " 


NEPTUNE'S  SHOKE  59 

"  '  I  hear  the  hoofs  upon  the  hill ; 
I  hear  them  fainter,  fainter  still,'  " 

she  sang  in  her  clear  voice.  "  The  idea  of  that  old 
Virginia  song  coming  to  me  here  !" 

"  This  talk  about  reclaiming  and  reforming  is  all 
bosh,"  remarked  Ash,  leaning  back  against  a  high 
fragment  of  rock,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  I 
am  what  I  am  because  I  choose  to  be,  that's  all.  The 
usual  successes  of  American  life,  what  are  they  ?  I  no 
longer  care  a  rap  about  them,  because  I've  had  them,  or 
at  least  have  seen  them  within  my  reach.  I  came  up 
from  nothing ;  I  got  an  education — no  matter  now  how 
I  got  it ;  I  studied  law.  In  ten  years  I  had  won  such  a 
position  in  my  profession  (my  branch  of  it — I  was  nev- 
er an  office  lawyer)  that  everything  lay  open  before  me. 
It  was  only  a  question  of  a  certain  number  of  years. 
Not  only  was  this  generally  prophesied,  but  I  knew  it 
myself.  But  by  that  time  I  had  found  out  the  unutter- 
able stupidity  of  people  and  their  pursuits ;  I  couldn't 
help  despising  them.  I  had  made  enough  to  make  my 
mother  comfortable,  and  there  came  over  me  a  horror 
of  a  plodding  life.  I  said  to  myself,  '  What  is  the  use 
of  it  ?'  Of  pleasure  there  was  no  question.  But  I  could 
go  back  to  that  plodding  life  to-morrow  if  I  chose. 
Don't  you  believe  it,  Pauline?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Yet  you  don't  say— try  ?" 

"  Try,  by  all  means." 

"At  a  safe  distance  from  you  !" 

"  Yes,  at  a  safe  distance  from  me,"  Pauline  answered. 
"  I  should  do  you  no  good ;  I  am  not  enough  in  ear- 
nest. I  am  never  in  earnest  long  about  anything.  I  am 


60  NEPTUNE'S  SHOBE 

changeable,  too  —  you  have  no  idea  how  changeable. 
There  has  been  no  opportunity  to  show  you." 

"  Is  that  a  threat  ?  You  know  that  I  am  deeply  in 
love  with  you."  He  did  not  move  as  he  said  this,  but 
his  eyes  were  fixed  passionately  upon  her  face. 

"  I  neither  know  it  nor  believe  it ;  it  is  with  you  sim- 
ply as  it  is  with  me — there  is  no  one  else  here."  She 
stood  there  watching  the  wavelets  break  at  her  feet. 
Nothing  in  her  countenance  corresponded  in  the  least 
with  the  description  she  had  just  given  of  herself. 

"  How  you  say  that !  What  am  I  to  think  of  you  ? 
You  have  a  face  to  worship  :  does  it  lie  ?"  said  Ash. 

"  Oh,  my  face  !"  She  turned,  and  began  to  cross  the 
field  towards  the  farm. 

"  It  shouldn't  have  that  expression,  then,"  he  said, 
joining  her,  and  walking  by  her  side.  "  I  don't  believe 
you  know  what  it  is  yourself,  Pauline — that  expression. 
It  seems  to  say  as  you  talk,  coming  straight  from  those 
divine  lips,  those  sweet  eyes :  '  I  could  love  you.  Be 
good  and  I  will.'  Why,  you  have  almost  made  me  de- 
termine to  be  'good'  again,  almost  made  me  begin  to 
dream  of  going  back  to  that  plodding  life  that  I  loathe. 
And  you  don't  know  what  I  am." 

Mrs.  Graham  did  not  answer;  she  did  not  look  up, 
though  she  knew  that  his  head  was  bent  beseechingly 
towards  her. 

John  Ash  was  obliged  to  bend ;  he  was  very  tall.  His 
figure  was  rather  thin,  and  he  had  a  slouching  gait ;  his 
broad  shoulders  and  well-knit  muscles  showed  that  he 
had  plenty  of  force,  and  his  slouching  step  seemed  to 
come  from  laziness,  as  though  he  found  it  too  much 
trouble  to  plant  his  feet  firmly,  to  carry  his  long  length 
erect.  He  was  holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  the 


NEPTUNE  S   SHORE  61 

light  from  the  sea  showed  his  face  clearly,  its  good 
points  and  its  bad.  His  head  was  well  shaped,  covered 
with  thick  brown  hair,  closely  cut;  but,  in  spite  of  the 
shortness,  many  silver  threads  could  be  seen  on  the 
brown — a  premature  silver,  as  he  was  not  yet  thirty- 
five.  His  face  was  beardless,  thin,  with  a  bold  eagle- 
like  outline,  and  strong,  warm  blue  eyes,  the  blue  eyes 
that  go  with  a  great  deal  of  color.  Ordinarily,  Ash  had 
now  but  little  color;  that  is,  there  was  but  little  red; 
his  complexion  had  a  dark  brown  hue;  there  were  many 
deep  lines.  The  mouth,  the  worst  feature,  had  a  cynical 
droop ;  the  jaw  conveyed  suggestions  .that  were  not 
agreeable.  The  expression  of  the  whole  countenance 
was  that  of  recklessness  and  cleverness,  both  of  no  com- 
mon order.  Of  late  the  recklessness  had  often  changed 
into  a  more  happy  merriment  when  he  was  with  Pauline, 
the  careless  merriment  of  a  boy ;  one  could  see  then 
plainly  how  handsome  he  must  have  been  before  the 
lines,  and  the  heaviness,  and,  alas !  the  evil,  had  come 
to  darken  his  youth,  and  to  sadden  (for  so  it  must  have 
been)  his  silent,  frightened-looking  mother. 

They  reached  the  farm ;  he  led  out  the  horses,  and 
mounted  her.  She  gathered  up  the  reins ;  but  he  still 
held  the  bridle.  "  How  tired  you  look  !"  he  said. 

Her  face  was  flushed  slightly,  high  on  the  cheeks 
close  under  the  eyes  ;  between  the  fair  eyebrows  a  per- 
pendicular line  was  visible ;  for  the  moment,  she  showed 
to  the  full  her  thirty  years. 

"  Yes,  I  am  tired  ;  and  it's  dangerous  to  tire  me,"  she 
answered,  smiling.  She  had  recovered  her  light-hearted 
carelessness. 

Ash  still  looked  at  her.  A  sudden  conviction  seemed 
to  seize  him.  "Don't  throw  me  over,  Pauline,"  he  plead- 


62  NEPTUNE  S   SHORE 

cd.  And  as  he  spoke,  on  his  brown,  deeply  lined  face 
there  was  an  expression  which  was  boyishly  young  and 
trusting. 

"As  I  told  you,  so  long  as  there  is  no  one  else,"  Pau- 
line answered. 

The  next  moment  they  were  flying  over  the  plain. 


HI 

The  table  (Thole  of  the  Star  of  Italy,  the  Salerno  inn 
from  whose  mysteries  (of  eels  and  chestnuts)  Mrs. 
Preston  had  fled — this  unctuous  table  d'hote  had  been 
unusually  brilliant  during  this  month  of  March ;  upon 
several  occasions  there  had  been  no  less  than  fifteen 
travellers  present,  and  the  operatic  young  landlord  him- 
self, with  his  affectionate  smile,  had  come  in  to  hand  the 
peas. 

The  most  unnoticed  person  was  always  a  tall  woman 
of  fifty-five,  who,  entering  with  noiseless  step,  slipped 
into  her  chair  so  quickly  and  furtively  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  were  afraid  of  being  seen  standing  upon  her  feet. 
Once  in  her  place,  she  ate  sparingly,  looking  neither  to 
the  right  nor  the  left,  holding  her  knife  and  fork  with 
care,  and  laying  them  down  cautiously,  as  though  she 
•were  trying  not  to  waken  some  one  who  was  asleep. 
But  the  table  d'hote  of  the  Star  of  Italy  was  never 
asleep ;  the  travellers,  English  and  American,  could 
not  help  feeling  that  they  were  far  from  home  on  this 
shore  where  so  recently  brigands  had  prowled.  It  is 
well  known  that  this  feeling  promotes  conversation. 

One  evening  a  pink-cheeked  woman,  who  wore  a  lit- 
tle round  lace  cap  perched  on  the  top  of  her  smooth 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE  63 

gray  hair,  addressed  the  silent  stranger  at  her  left  hand. 
"You  have  been  to  Paestum,  I  dare  say?"  she  said,  in 
her  pleasant  English  voice. 

"  No." 

"But  you  are  going,  probably?  Directly  we  came, 
yesterday  morning,  we  engaged  horses  and  started  at 
once." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  care  about  going." 

"  Not  to  see  the  temples  ?" 

"  I  didn't  know  as  there  were  temples,"  murmured 
the  other,  shyly. 

"  Fancy  !  But  you  really  ought  to  go,  you  know," 
the  pleasant  voice  resumed,  doing  a  little  missionary 
work  (which  can  never  come  amiss).  "  The  temples  are 
well  worth  seeing ;  they  are  Greek." 

"  I've  been  ter  see  a  good  many  buildings  already :  in 
Paris  there  were  a  good  many ;  my  son  took  me,"  the 
tall  woman  answered,  her  tone  becoming  more  assured 
as  she  mentioned  "  my  son." 

"  But  these  temples  are — are  rather  different.  I  was 
saying  to  our  neighbor  here  that  she  really  ought  on  no 
account  to  miss  going  down  to  Paestum,"  the  fresh-faced 
Englishwoman  continued,  addressing  her  husband,  who 
sat  next  to  her  on  the  right,  for  the  moment  very  busy 
with,  his  peas  (which  were  good,  but  a  little  oily).  "The 
drive  is  not  difficult.  And  we  found  it  most  interest- 
ing." 

"  Interesting  ?  It  may  well  be  interesting  ;  finest 
Greek  remains  outside  of  Athens,"  answered  the  hus- 
band, a  portly  Warwickshire  vicar.  He  bent  forward  a 
little  to  glance  past  his  wife  at  this  ignorer  of  temples 
at  her  other  hand.  "American,"  he  said  to  himself, 
and  returned  to  his  peas. 


66  NEPTUNE  S   SHORE 

to  him  that  this  nomad  life  abroad  was  causing  her  any 
suffering.  Her  shyness,  her  dread  of  being  looked  at, 
her  dread  of  foreign  servants,  he  did  not  fully  see,  be- 
cause when  he  was  present  she  controlled  them ;  when 
he  was  present,  also,  in  a  great  measure,  they  disap- 
peared. He  knew  that  she  would  not  have  had  one 
moment's  content  had  he  left  her  behind  him,  even  if 
lie  had  left  her  in  the  finest  house  his  money  could 
purchase ;  so  he  took  her  with  him,  and  travelled 
slowly,  for  her  sake,  making  no  journeys  that  she  could 
not  make,  sending  forward  to  engage  the  best  rooms 
for  her  at  the  inns  where  he  intended  to  stop. 

That  he  had  not  taken  her  to  Paestum  was  not  an 
evidence  of  neglect.  During  the  first  months  of  their 
wanderings  he  had  been  at  pains  to  take  her  every- 
where he  had  thought  that  she  would  enjoy  it.  But 
Mrs.  Ash  had  enjoyed  nothing — save  the  going  about 
on  her  son's  arm.  If  he  left  her  alone  amid  the  most 
exquisite  scenery  in  the  world,  she  did  not  even  see 
the  scenery  ;  she  thought  a  dusty  jaunt  in  a  horse-car 
"  very  pleasant "  if  John  was  there.  So  at  last  John 
gave  her  his  simple  presence  often,  but  troubled  her 
with  descriptions  and  excursions  no  more. 

Dumb,  shy,  hopelessly  out  of  her  element  as  she  was, 
this  mother  had,  on  the  whole,  enjoyed  her  two  years 
abroad.  The  reason  was  found  in  the  fact  that  she 
could  say  to  herself,  or  rather  could  hope  to  herself, 
that  John  was  more  "  steady  "  over  here. 

The  rustic  term  covered  much  —  the  days  and  the 
nights  when  John  had  not  been  "  steady." 

These  six  weeks  at  Salerno  particularly  had  been  a 
season  of  blessed  repose  to  Azubah  Ash ;  the  days  had 
gone  by  so  peacefully  that  life  had  become  almost  com- 


NEPTUNE  S    SHORE  67 

fortable  to  her  again,  in  spite  of  the  ordeal  of  dinner. 
She  had  even  been  beguiled  into  thinking  a  little  of  the 
future — of  the  farm  she  should  like  to  have  some  day, 
with  fruit  and  cream  and  vegetables — yes,  especially 
vegetables ;  and  she  dreamed  of  an  old  pleasure  of  her 
youth,  that  of  hunting  for  little  round  artichokes  in 
the  cool  brown  earth.  John  had  been  contented  all  the 
time,  and  his  mood  had  been  very  tranquil.  His 
mother  liked  this  much  better  than  high  spirits.  There 
was  an  element  sometimes  in  John's  high  spirits  that 
had  made  her  tremble. 

But  on  the  day  succeeding  that  last  ride  with  Mrs. 
Graham,  when  they  had  dismounted  and  walked  down 
to  the  shore,  John  had  come  back  to  the  inn  with  a 
darkened  face.  The  dark  mood  had  lasted  now  for  ten 
days.  His  mother  began  to  lead  her  old  sleepless, 
restless  life  again.  Her  awkward  crochet-needle  had 
stopped  of  itself  ;  she  went  no-  more  to  her  bench  beside 
the  asparagus.  Instead,  she  remained  in  her  room — 
her  four  rooms — every  now  and  then  peeping  anxiously 
through  the  blinds.  Nothing  happened — so  any  one 
would  have  said ;  the  sea  continued  blue  and  misty, 
the  sky  blue  and  clear ;  every  one  came  and  went  as 
usual  in  the  divine  weather  of  the  Italian  spring.  But 
John  Ash's  mother  had,  to  use  an  old  expression,  her 
heart  in  her  mouth  all  the  time. 

It  choked  her,  and  she  gave  up  going  to  the  table 
d'hote;  she  let  her  son  suppose  that  the  meal  was 
served  in  her  sitting-room,  but  in  reality  she  took  no 
dinner  at  all.  When  he  came  in  she  was  always  there, 
always  carefully  dressed  in  the  black  silk  whose  rich 
texture  the  vicar's  wife  had  noticed,  with  the  "  very 
good  "  diamonds  fastening  her  collar  and  on  her  thin 


68  NEPTUNE  S    SHORE 

hands.  She  made  a  constant  effort  that  her  son  should 
notice  no  change  in  her. 

Azubah  Ash  had  a  gaunt  frame  with  large  bones  ;  her 
chest  was  hollow,  and  she  stooped  a  little  as  she  walked. 
Yet,  looking  at  her,  one  felt  sure  that  she  would  live  to 
be  an  old  woman.  Her  large  features  were  roughly 
moulded,  her  cheeks  thin  ;  her  thick  dusky  hair  was  put 
plainly  back  from  her  face,  and  arranged  with  a  high 
comb  after  a  fashion  of  her  youth.  Her  eyes,  large, 
dark,  and  appealing,  were  sunken  ;  they  were  beautiful 
eyes,  if  one  could  have  removed  from  them  their  ex- 
pression of  apprehension,  but  that  seemed  now  to  have 
grown  a  part  of  them,  to  have  become  fixed  by  time. 
Observers  of  physiognomy  who  met  Azubah  during 
these  two  years  of  her  sojourn  abroad  never  forgot  her 
— that  tall  gaunt  woman  with  the  awkward  step  and 
bearing,  with  the  rich  dress  and  diamonds,  from  whose 
timid  face  with  its  rough  features  those  beautiful  eyes 
looked  appealingly  out. 

"  Mother,  I  am  going  to  Psestum  to-morrow,"  an- 
nounced Ash  on  that  eleventh  day.  "  Perhaps  you 
had  better  go  with  me."  He  had  come  in  and  thrown 
himself  down  upon  the  sofa,  where  he  sat  staring  at  the 
wall. 

"  Pa3stum — yes,  that's  where  that  English  lady  said 
I'd  oughter  go,"  answered  Mrs.  Ash.  Then,  after  a 
moment,  "  She  said  there  were  temples  there."  She 
had  her  hands  folded  tightly  as  she  looked  at  her  son. 

"  They're  all  going — old  lady  Preston,  with  her 
ghosts  of  Abercrombies,  little  Miss  Holland,  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, and  all.  Those  boys  are  sketching  down  there ; 
they've  been  there  some  time." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  ter  go,  John,  if  you  are  going. 


AZCBAFI    ASH 


NEPTUNE  S   SHORE  69 

Would  you  like  ter  have  me — ter  have  me  ride  horse- 
back ?" 

Ash,  coming  out  of  his  abstraction,  broke  into  a 
laugh.  "I  shall  take  you  in  the  finest  landau  in  Sa- 
lerno, manner,"  he  said,  coming  across  to  kiss  her;  "old 
lady  Preston  will  have  to  put  up  with  the  second  best. 
You  haven't  forgotten,  then,  that  you  used  to  ride, 
marmer,  have  you  ?" 

The  mother's  eyes  had  filled  upon  hearing  the  old 
name,  the  "  marmer  "  of  the  days  when  he  had  been 
her  devoted,  constantly  following,  tyrannical,  but  very 
loving  little  boy.  But  she  did  not  let  the  tears  drop  : 
she  never  made  scenes  of  any  kind  before  John. 
"  Well,  you've  been  riding  horseback  every  day  now 
for  a  long  while ;  you  haven't  seemed  to  care  at 
all  for  carriages.  And  I  did  use  to  ride  horseback  a 
good  deal  when  I  was  a  girl ;  I  used  to  ride  to  the 
mill." 

"  I  know  you  did.  And  carry  the  grist  to  be 
ground."  He  kissed  her  again.  "Don't  be  afraid  of 
anything  or  anybody  to-morrow,  marmer,  I  beg.  You're 
the  bravest  and  most  sensible  woman  I  know,  and  I 
want  you  to  look  what  you  are." 

"  Shall  I  wear  my  India  shawl,  then  ?" 

"  Wear  the  best  you  have  ;  I  wish  it  were  a  hundred 
times  bester.  You  are  handsomer  than  any  of  them  as 
it  is." 

"  Oh  no,  John ;  I  ain't  good-looking  ;  I  never  was," 
said  his  mother,  blushing.  She  put  her  hand  up  for  a 
moment,  nervously,  over  her  mouth — a  gesture  habitual 
with  her. 

"  Yes,  you  are,  marmer.  Look  at  your  eyes.  It's 
only  that  you  have  got  into  a  way  of  not  thinking  so. 


70  NEPTUNE  ,S    SHORE 

But  I  think  so,  and  others  shall."  He  went  back  to  the 
sofa,  and  sank  into  abstraction  again. 

At  length  his  mother  broke  the  silence,  which  had 
lasted  very  long.  "  I  hope  they  are  all  well  over  there 
to-day  ?"  she  asked,  hesitatingly.  "  Over  there  "  was 
her  name  for  the  house  on  the  shore,  the  house  where 
she  knew  her  son  had  for  many  weeks  spent  all  his  time. 

"Well?  They're  extraordinarily  well,"  said  Ash. 
He  got  up  and  walked  restlessly  about  the  room. 
After  a  while  he  stopped,  and  now  he  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  his  mother's  presence,  for  his  eyes  rested 
upon  her  without  seeing  her.  "One  of  them  is  a  little 
too  well,"  he  said,  menacingly  ;  "let  him  look  to  himself 
— that's  all."  And  then  into  his  face,  his  mother, 
watching  him,  saw  coming  slowly  something  she  knew. 
The  expression  changed  him  so  completely  that  the 
ladies  who  had  seen  so  much  of  him  would  not  have 
recognized  their  visitor.  His  mother  recognized  him. 
That  expression  on  her  son's  face  was  her  life's  long 
terror. 

He  left  the  room.  She  listened  as  long  as  she  could 
hear  his  steps;  then,  after  sitting  for  some  time  with 
her  head  upon  her  arms  on  the  table  before  her,  she 
rose,  and  went  slowly  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 
Coming  back,  still  slowly,  she  paused,  and  for  five  min- 
utes stood  there  motionless.  Then  her  hands  dropped 
desparingly  by  her  sides,  and  her  worn  face  quivered. 
"  0  God,  O  our  Father,  I  really  don't  know  what  ter 
do  !"  she  murmured,  breaking  into  helpless  sobs,  the 
stifled,  difficult  sobs  of  a  person  unaccustomed  to  self- 
expression,  even  the  self-expression  of  grief. 

She  did  not  go  out.  Instead  of  that,  she  went  back 
to  the  inner  room  and  knelt  down. 


NEPTUNE'S  SHOKE  71 


IV 

The  next  morning  three  carriages  and  two  persons  on 
horseback  were  following  the  long  road  that  stretches 
southward  from  Salerno  to  Psostum. 

In  the  first  carriage  old  Mrs.  Preston  sat  enthroned 
amid  cushions  and  shawls  ;  opposite  she  had  placed  her 
nephew  Arthur,  first  because  he  was  slim,  second  be- 
cause he  was  a  man  (Mrs.  Preston  was  accustomed  to 
say,  "  Too  much  lady  talk  dries  my  brain  ")  ;  the  second 
carriage  held  Isabella  Holland  and  the  Abercrombie 
girls  ;  in  the  third,  a  landau  drawn  by  two  spirited 
horses,  were  Mrs.  Ash  and  her  son.  The  two  persons 
on  horseback  were  Pauline  Graham  and  Griffith  Carew. 

In  the  soft  spring  air  the  mountains  that  rise  all  the 
way  on  the  left  at  no  great  distance  from  the  road  had 
in  perfection  the  vague,  dreamy  outlines  and  violet 
hues  that  form  so  characteristic  a  feature  of  the  Italian 
landscape.  Up  in  the  sky  their  peaks  shone  whitely, 
powdered  with  snow.  The  flat  plain  that  stretches 
from  the  base  of  the  mountains  to  the  sea  had  beauty 
of  another  kind  ;  often  a  fever-swept  marsh,  it  pos- 
sessed at  this  season  all  a  marsh's  luxuriance  of  wav- 
ing reeds  and  flowers  and  tasselled  jungles,  with  water 
birds  rising  from  their  feeding-places,  and  flying  along, 
low  down,  with  a  slow  motion  of  their  broad  wings, 
their  feet  stretched  out  behind.  Troops  of  buffalo 
could  be  seen  here  and  there.  At  rare  intervals  there 
was  an  oasis  of  cultivated  ground,  with  a  solitary  farm- 
house. On  the  right,  all  the  way,  the  Mediterranean, 
meeting  the  flat  land  flatly,  stretched  forward  from 
thence  into  space,  going  on  bluely,  and  rising  a  little 


72  NEPTUNE'S  SUOKE 

on  the  horizon  line,  as  though  it  were  surmounting  a 
low  hill. 

Occasionally  the  carriages  passed  a  little  band  of  the 
small,  quick-stepping  Italian  soldiers. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  did  you  know,  aunt,  that  people  were 
murdered  by  brigands  on  this  very  bridge  only  ten  years 
ago  ?"  said  Arthur,  as  they  rolled  across  a  stone  cause- 
way raised  in  the  form  of  an  arch  over  a  sluggish 
stream. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the  brigands  who 
did  it !"  Mrs.  Preston  answered,  smacking  her  lips 
contemptuously. 

Arthur  at  least  was  very  sure  that  no  ten  brigands 
could  have  vanquished  his  aunt. 

"  This,  girls,  is  the  ancient  Tyrrhenian  Gulf,"  began 
Isabella  to  her  companions,  waving  one  neatly  gloved 
hand  towards  the  sea.  Isabella,  owing  to  the  singu- 
larly incessant  death  of  relatives,  was  always  in  mourn- 
ing ;  her  neat  gloves  therefore  were  sable.  "  The  tem- 
ples we  are  about  to  visit  are  very  ancient  also,  having 
been  built  ages  ago  by  Greeks,  who  came  from — from 
Greece,  of  course,  naturally  ;  and  never  ceased  to  regret 
it.  And  all  this  shore,  and  the  temples  also,  were  sa- 
cred to  Neptune,  or  Poseidon,  as  he  was  called  in  Greek. 
And  the  Greeks  lamented — but  I  will  read  you  that 
later  at  the  threshold  of  the  temples ;  you  cannot  fail 
to  be  interested." 

"  I  shall  not  be  interested  at  all,"  said  Hildegarde. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Rose. . 

"  They  had  nothing  to  lament  about ;  they  had  no 
dancing  to  do,"  added  Dorothea.  And  the  three  white 
faces  glared  suddenly  and  sullenly  at  their  astonished 
companion. 


NEPTUNE B   SHORE  73 

"  I  am  shocked,"  began  Isabella. 

"  Shocked  yourself,"  said  Rose. 

"  You  are  a  busybody,"  said  Dorothea. 

"  And  a  gormandizer,"  added  Hildegarde. 

"  And  a  Worm  /"  said  Rose,  with  decision.  "  We 
have  decided  not  to  pretend  any  more  before  you, 
Worm  !  Dance  yourself  till  your  legs  drop  off,  and 
see  how  you  like  it." 

The  three  girls  had  weak  soft  voices ;  they  possessed 
no  other  tones ;  the  strong  words  they  used,  therefore, 
were  all  the  more  startling  because  so  gently,  almost 
sighingly,  spoken. 

In  the  landau  there  had  been  silence.  Mrs.  Ash, 
after  respecting  her  son's  sombre  mood  for  more  than 
an  hour,  at  last  spoke :  "  I  guess  you  don't  care  very 
much  about  those  triflin'  temples,  after  all,  do  you, 
John?  And  it's  going  to  be  very  long.  Supposing  we 
turn  back  ?"  She  wore  her  India  shawl  and  a  Paris 
bonnet ;  she  was  sitting  without  touching  the  cushions 
of  the  carriage  behind  her.  She  had  looked  neither  at 
the  mountains  nor  at  the  sea;  most  of  the  time  her 
eyes  had  rested  on  the  blue  cloth  of  the  empty  seat 
opposite.  Occasionally,  however,  they  had  followed  the 
two  figures  on  horseback,  and  it  was  after  these  figures 
had  passed  them  a  second  time,  pushing  on  ahead  in 
order  to  get  a  free  space  of  road  for  a  gallop,  that  she 
had  offered  her  suggestion. 

"Go  back?  Not  for  ten  thousand  dollars — not  for 
ten  thousand  devils  !"  said  John  Ash.  "  What  a  lazy  girl 
you  are,  marmer !"  And  he  became  gay  and  talkative. 

His  mother  responded  to  his  gayety  as  well  as  she 
could :  she  laughed  when  he  did.  Her  laugh  was  eager. 
It  was  almost  obsequious. 


74  NEPTUNE  S   SHORE 

By-and-by  the  tliree  temples  loomed  into  view,  stand- 
ing in  all  their  beauty  on  the  barren  waste,  majestic, 
uninjured,  extraordinary.  Their  rows  of  fluted  col- 
umns, their  brilliant  tawny  hues,  their  perfect  Doric 
architecture,  made  the  loneliness  surrounding  them  even 
more  lonely,  made  the  sound  of  the  sea  breaking  near 
by  on  the  lifeless  shore  a  melancholy  dirge.  When  the 
party  reached  the  great  colonnades  there  were  exclama- 
tions ;  there  was  even  declamation,  Mrs.  Preston  having 
been  fitted  by  nature  for  that.  Freemantle,  Gates,  and 
Beckett  had  come  rushing  forward  to  meet  their  arriv- 
ing friends.  In  reality,  however,  it  was  Griff  whom 
they  had  rushed  to  meet.  Griff  to  their  minds  was  the 
only  important  person  present,  even  though  the  unim- 
portant included  Pauline. 

"Hallo,  Griff,  old  fellow  !  how  are  you  ?" 
"Couldn't  you  stay,  Griff?     We've  got  a  tent  for 
you." 

They  laughed,  and  made  jokes,  and  hovered  about 
him,  longing  to  drag  him  off  immediately  to  show  him 
their  drawings,  and  to  discuss  with  him  a  hundred  dis- 
puted points.  But  though  they  thus  paid  small  atten- 
tion to  Pauline,  they  were  obliged  to  form  part  of  her 
train  ;  for  as  Griff  remained  with  her,  and  they  re- 
mained with  Griff,  naturally,  as  Isabella  would  have 
said,  they  made  the  tour  of  inspection  in  her  company. 
In  the  meanwhile  Isabella,  who  had  it  upon  her 
strictly  kept  conscience  not  to  neglect  her  own  duties 
in  spite  of  the  Abercrombie  revolt,  had  taken  her  stand 
before  the  great  temple  of  Neptune,  with  her  instruc- 
tive little  book  in  her  hand.  "  '  The  men  of  Poseidonia,' 
she  began,  "'having  been  at  first  true  Greeks,  had  in 
process  of  time  gradually  become  barbarized,  changing 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE  75 

to  Romans.'  Poseidonia,  girls,  was  the  ancient  name 
of  Pacstum,"  she  interpolated  in  explanation,  glancing 
over  her  glasses  at  her  silent  audience. 

The  Abercrombies  could  not  retort  this  time,  be- 
cause Aunt  Octavia  was  very  near  them,  sitting  at  the 
base  of  one  of  the  great  columns  of  travertine  with  the 
air  and  manner  of  Neptune's  only  lawful  wife.  But 
their  backs  were  towards  her;  she  could  not  see  their 
faces ;  they  were  able,  therefore,  to  make  grimaces  at 
Isabella,  and  this  they  immediately  proceeded  to  do  in 
unison,  flattening  their  thin  lips  over  their  teeth  in  a 
very  ghastly  way,  and  turning  up  their  eyes  so  unnat- 
urally far  that  Isabella  was  afraid  the  pupils  would 
never  come  down  again. 

"'Yet  they  still  observed  one  Hellenic  festival,'" 
she  read  stumblingly  on — stumblingly  because  she  felt 
obliged  from  a  sort  of  fascination  to  glance  every  now 
and  then  at  the  distorted  countenances  before  her — 
"  '  one  Hellenic  festival,  when  they  met  together  here 
to  call  to  remembrance  the  old  days  and  the  old  cus- 
toms, and  to  weep  upon  each  other's  necks,  and  to 
lament  drearily.  And  then,  when  the  time  of  their 
mourning  was  over,  they  departed,  each  man  in  silence 
to  his  Roman  home.'  " 

"Very  fine,"  said  Mrs.  Preston,  commendingly,  from 
her  column. 

But  Isabella  had  closed  her  book,  and  was  walking 
away,  wiping  her  forehead :  those  girls'  faces  were 
really  too  horrible. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Isabella  ?"  Mrs.  Preston 
called. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  gather  some  asphodel  ?"  Isabella 
responded,  with  some  asperity. 


76  NEPTUNE'S  SHORE 

But  she  did  not  gather  much  asphodel.  Coming 
upon  Mrs.  Ash  wandering  about  over  the  fallen  stones, 
she  stayed  her  steps  to  speak  to  her.  She  was  not  in- 
terested in  Mrs.  Ash,  but  she  was  so  "  happily  relieved  " 
that  dear  Paulie  lately  had  given  up  her  rides  with  the 
son,  that  she,  as  Paulie's  cousin  (first),  could  afford  to 
be  civil  to  the  mother,  in  spite  of  that  mother's  bad 
judgment  as  to  English  and  diamonds.  Isabella  disap- 
proved of  Mrs.  Ash;  she  thought  that  "such  persons" 
did  great  harm  by  their  display  of  ''mere  vulgar  afflu- 
ence." No  vulgar  affluence  oppressed  Isabella.  She 
had  six  hundred  dollars  a  year  of  her  own,  and  each 
dollar  was  well  bred. 

"  We  shall  soon  be  having  lunch,  I  suppose,"  she 
began,  in  a  gracious  tone.  "  It  seems  almost  a  desecra- 
tion, doesn't  it,  to  have  it  in  the  shrine  itself,  for  I  see 
they  are  arranging  it  there." 

"  Oh,  is  that  a  shrine  ?"  said  Mrs.  Ash,  vaguely.  "  I 
didn't  know.  But  then  I'm  not  a  Catholic.  They  seem 
very  large  buildings.  They  seem  wasted  here." 

Little  Isabella  looked  up  at  her — she  was  obliged  to 
look  up,  her  companion  was  so  tall.  The  anxious  ex- 
pression in  Mrs.  Ash's  eyes  had  grown  into  anguish : 
she  was  watching  her  son,  who  had  now  joined  Pauline 
and  her  train.  Pauline  had  Carew  on  her  right  hand 
and  John  Ash  on  her  left ;  the  four  boys  walked  strag- 
glingly,  now  in  front,  now  behind,  but  never  far  from 
Carew. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  said  Isabella ;  "  the  drive  was 
too  long  for  you.  Pray  take  my  smelling-salts ;  they 
are  sometimes  refreshing."  And  she  detached  from  its 
black  chain  a  minute  funereal  bottle. 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Ash,  gazing  down  un- 


NEPTUNE  S    SHORE  77 

compreliendingly  at  the  offering;  "  I  am  very  well  in- 
deed. I  was  jest  looking  at  your  cousin,  Mrs.  Graham ; 
she's  very  handsome." 

"  Yes,"  responded  Isabella,  gladly  seizing  this  oppor- 
tunity to  convey  to  the  Ash  household  a  little  light, 
"  Pauline  is  handsome — in  her  own  way.  It  is  not  the 
style  that  I  myself  admire.  But  then  I  know  that  my 
taste  is  severe.  By  ordinary  people  Pauline  is  con- 
sidered attractive ;  it  is  therefore  all  the  more  to  be  de- 
plored that  she  should  be  such  a  sad,  sad  flirt." 

"A  flirt?"  said  Mrs.  Ash. 

"  Yes — I  am  sorry  to  say  it.  No  matter  how  far  she 
may  go,  it  means  nothing,  absolutely  nothing ;  she  has 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  allowing  herself  either  to 
fall  in  love  or  to  marry  again  ;  she  prefers  her  position 
as  it  is.  And  I  don't  think  she  realizes  sufficiently  that 
what  is  but  pastime  to  her  may  be  taken  more  seriously 
by  others ;  and  naturally,  I  must  say,  after  the  way  she 
sometimes  goes  on.  /  could  never  do  so,  no  matter 
what  the  temptations  were,  and  I  must  say  I  have  never 
been  able  to  understand  it  in  Pauline.  At  present  it  is 
Mr.  Carew ;  she  is  going  to  Naples  with  him  to-morrow 
for  the  day.  As  you  may  imagine,  it  is  against  our 
wish — Cousin  Octavia  Preston's  and  mine.  But  Pau- 
line being  a  widow,  which  she  considers  an  advantage, 
and  no  longer  young  (she  is  thirty,  though  you  may 
not  think  it;  she  shows  her  age  very  fully  in  the  morn- 
ing)— Pauline,  under  these  circumstances,  has  for  some 
time  refused  a  chaperon.  I  don't  think  myself  that 
she  needs  a  chaperon  exactly,  but  she  might  take  a  lady 
friend." 

"Going  to  Naples  with  him  to-morrow,"  murmured 
Mrs.  Ash.  She  put  her  gloved  hand  over  her  mouth  for 


78  NEPTUNE'S  SHORE 

a  moment,  the  large  kid  expanse  very  different  from 
Isabella's  little  black  paw.  "  I  might  as.well  go  over 
there,"  she  said,  starting  off  with  a  rapid  step  towards 
Pauline. 

Pauline  received  her  smilingly  ;  Ash  frowned  a  little. 
He  frowned  not  at  his  mother  —  she  was  always  wel- 
come ;  he  frowned  at  her  persistence  in  standing  so 
near  Pauline,  in  dogging  her  steps.  Mrs.  Ash  kept 
this  up ;  she  sat  near  Pauline  at  lunch ;  she  followed 
her  when  she  strolled  down  to  the  beach  ;  she  gathered 
flowers  for  her ;  in  her  India  shawl  and  Paris  bonnet 
she  hovered  constantly  near. 

Only  once  did  John  Ash  find  opportunity  to  speak  to 
Pauline  alone.  The  boys  had  at  last  carried  off  Griff 
by  force  to  their  camp ;  Griff  was  willing  enough  to  go, 
the  "  force  "  applied  to  the  intellectual  effort  necessary 
on  the  boys'  part  to  detach  him  from  a  lady  who  wished 
to  keep  him  by  her  side.  They  had  all  been  strolling 
up  and  down  in  the  shade  of  the  so-called  Basilica, 
amid  the  fern  and  acanthus.  Left  alone  with  her  son 
and  Mrs.  Graham,  Mrs.  Ash,  after  remaining  with  them 
a  few  moments,  turned  aside,  and  entering  the  temple, 
sat  down  there.  She  was  out  of  hearing,  but  still  near. 

"  Ride  with  me  to-morrow,  Pauline,"  Ash  said,  imme- 
diately. "  I  have  not  had  a  chance  to  speak  to  you  be- 
fore. Don't  refuse." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must.     I  have  an  engagement." 

"  With  Carew  ?" 

"  Yes." 

«  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  am  very  good-natured  to  tell  you.  I  am  going  to 
Naples  with  him  for  the  day." 

"  You  are  going —     Damnation  !" 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE  79 

"You  forget  yourself,"  said  Pauline.  Then,  when 
she  saw  the  look  on  his  face — the  face  of  this  man  with 
whom  she  had  played — she  was  startled. 

"  Forget  myself  !  I  wish  I  could.  You  shall  not  go 
to  Naples." 

"  And  how  can  you  prevent  it  ?" 

"  Are  you  daring  me  ?" 

"By  no  means,"  answered  Pauline;  and  this  time 
she  really  tried  to  speak  gently.  "  I  was  calling  to  your 
remembrance  the  fact  that  there  is  no  tie  between  us, 
Mr.  Ash ;  you  have  no  shadow  of  authority  over  my 
actions ;  I  am  free  to  do  as  I  please." 

"  I  know  you  are  ;  that  is  the  worst  of  it,"  he  said, 
almost  with  a  groan.  "Pauline,  don't  play  with  me 
now.  I  have  given  up  hoping  for  anything  for  myself 
— if  I  ever  really  did  hope ;  I  am  not  worthy  of  you. 
Whether  you  could  make  me  worthy  I  don't  know  ;  but 
I  don't  ask  you  that ;  I  don't  ask  you  to  try ;  it  would 
be  too  much.  I  only  ask  you  to  be  as  you  have  been ; 
as  you  were,  I  mean,  during  all  those  many  weeks,  not 
as  you  have  been  lately.  Only  a  few  days  are  left  when 
I  can  see  you  freely  ;  be  kind  to  me,  then,  during  those 
few  days,  and  then  I  will  take  myself  off." 

"  I  mean  to  be  kind  ;  I  am  kind." 

"Then  ride  with  me  to-morrow;  just  this  once 
more." 

"  But  I  told  you  it  was  impossible  ;  I  told  you  I  was 
going  to  Naples." 

The  pleading  vanished  from  Ash's  face  and  voice, 
"/never  asked  you  to  do  that — to  go  off  with  me  for 
a  whole  day." 

Pauline  did  not  answer;  she  was  arranging  the  flow- 
ers which  Mrs.  Ash  had  industriously  gathered. 


80  NEPTUNE'S  SHOKE 

"  So  much  the  greater  fool  I ! — is  that  what  yon  are 
thinking?"  Ash  went  on,  laughing  discordantly. 

For  the  moment  Pauline  forgot  to  he  angry  in  the 
vague  feeling,  something  like  fear,  which  took  posses- 
sion of  her.  All  fear  is  uncomfortable,  and  she  hated 
discomfort;  she  gave  herself  a  little  inward  shake  as  if 
to  shake  it  off.  "  I  shall  ask  Cousin  Oc  to  go  back  to 
Paris  next  week,"  was  her  thought.  "  1  have  had  enough 
of  Italy  for  the  present — Italy  and  madmen  !" 

"You  won't  go?"  asked  Ash,  bending  forward  eager- 
ly, as  though  he  had  gained  hope  from  her  silence. 

"To  Paris?" 

"  Are  we  speaking  of  Paris  ?  To  Naples  —  to- 
morrow." 

"  Oh,  I  must  go  to  Naples,"  she  answered,  gayly.  In 
spite  of  her  gayety  she  turned  towards  the  Basilica; 
Mrs.  Ash  was  the  nearest  person. 

"  You  are  going  to  my  mother  ?  She,  at  least,  is  a 
good  woman ;  she  would  never  have  tarnished  herself 
with  such  an  expedition  as  you  are  planning !"  cried 
Ash,  in  a  fury. 

Pauline  turned  white.  "  I  am  well  paid  for  ever 
having  endured  you,  ever  having  liked  you,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  she  hastened  on.  "  I  might  have 
known — I  might  have  known." 

There  was  not  much  to  choose  now  between  the  ex- 
pression of  the  two  faces,  for  the  woman's  sweet  counte- 
nance showed  in  its  pallor  an  anger  as  vivid  as  that 
which  had  flushed  the  face  of  the  man  beside  her,  with 
a  red  so  dark  that  his  blue  eyes  looked  unnaturally  light 
by  contrast,  as  though  they  had  been  set  in  the  face  of 
an  Indian. 

Mrs.  Ash  had  come  hurriedly  out  to  meet  them.    Her 


NEPTUNE  S    SHOKE  81 

son  paid  no  attention  to  her ;  all  his  powers  were  evi- 
dently concentrated  upon  holding  himself  in  check.  "  I 
shouldn't  have  said  it,  even  if  it  were  the  plain  brutal 
truth,"  he  said.  "  But  you  madden  me,  Pauline.  I 
mean  what  I  say — you  really  do  drive  me  into  a  kind 
of  madness." 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  drive  you  into  anything ;  I 
have  no  desire  to  talk  with  you  further,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  No,  no,  dearie,  don't  say  that ;  talk  ter  him  a  little 
longer,"  said  Mrs.  Ash,  coming  forward,  her  face  set  in 
a  tremulous  smile.  "  I'm  sure  it's  very  pleasant  here — 
beside  these  buildings.  And  John  thinks  so  much  of 
you  ;  he  means  no  harm." 

"Poor  mother  !"  said  Ash,  his  voice  softening.  "She 
does  not  dare  to  say  to  you  what  she  longs  to  say  ;  she 
would  whisper  it  if  she  could ;  and  that  is,  '  Don't  pro- 
voke him  !'  She  has  some  pretty  bad  memories — haven't 
you,  mother?  —  of  times  when  I've  —  when  I've  gone 
a-hunting,  as  one  may  say.  She'll  tell  you  about  them 
if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  them ;  I  don't  want  to 
hear  about  anything,"  answered  Mrs.  Graham,  troubled 
out  of  all  her  composure,  troubled  even  out  of  her  anger 
by  the  strangeness  of  this  strange  pair.  She  looked 
about  for  some  one,  and,  seeing  Carew  coming  from  the 
tents  of  the  camp,  she  waved  her  hand  to  attract  his  at- 
tention and  beckoned  to  him  ;  then  she  went  forward 
to  meet  him  as  he  hastened  towards  her. 

Ash  disengaged  himself  from  his  mother,  who,  how- 
ever, had  only  touched  his  arm  entreatingly,  for  she  had 
learned  to  be  very  cautious  where  her  son  was  concerned ; 
he  strode  forward  to  Pauline's  side. 


82  NEPTUNE  S    SHORE 

"  I  should  rather  see  you  dead  before  me  than  go 
with  that  man  to-morrow." 

"Pray  don't  kill  me,  at  least  till  the  day  is  over," 
Pauline  answered,  her  courage,  and  her  unconquerable 
carelessness  too,  returning  in  the  approach  of  Carew. 
"  It  would  be  quite  too  great  a  disappointment  to  lose 
my  day." 

"  You  shall  lose  it !"  said  Ash,  with  a  loud  coarse 
oath. 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  woman,  all  her  lovely  delicate  person 
shrinking  away  from  him. 

Her  intonation  had  been  one  of  disgust.  She  held 
the  skirt  of  her  habit  closer,  as  if  to  avoid  all  contact. 


At  five  o'clock  of  the  same  afternoon  Freemantle, 
Gates,  and  Beckett,  with  Arthur  Abercrombie,  came 
running  along  the  narrow  streets  of  a  village  some  miles 
from  Psestum. 

The  stone  houses  of  which  this  village  was  composed 
stood  like  two  solid  walls  facing  each  other,  rising  di- 
rectly from  the  stone-paved  road,  which  was  barely  ten 
feet  wide  ;  down  this  conduit  water  was  pouring  like  a 
brook.  The  houses  were  about  forty  in  number,  twenty 
on  each  side,  and  this  one  short  street  was  all  there  was 
of  the  town. 

It  was  raining,  not  in  drops,  but  in  torrents,  with  great 
pats  of  water  coming  over,  almost  like  stones,  and  strik- 
ing upon  the  heads  of  those  who  were  passing  below ; 
every  two  or  three  minutes  there  came  a  glare  of  blind- 
ingly  white  lightning,  followed  immediately  by  the  crash 


NEPTUNE  S    SHORE  83 

of  thunder,  which  seemed  to  be  rolling  on  the  very  roofs 
of  the  houses  themselves.  The  four  boys  must  have 
been  out  in  the  storm  for  some  time,  for  they  paid  no 
attention  to  it.  Their  faces  we're  set,  excited.  Every 
thread  of  their  clothing  was  wet  through. 

"  This  is  the  house,"  said  Arthur. 

They  looked  up,  sheltering  their  eyes  with  their  arms 
from  the  blows  of  the  rain-balls.  From  the  closed  win- 
dows above,  the  faces  of  Isabella  Holland  and  the  three 
Abercrombie  girls  looked  down  at  them,  pressed  flatly 
against  the  small  panes,  in  order  to  see ;  for  the  storm 
had  made  the  air  so  dark  that  the  street  lay  in  gloom. 

The  next  moment  the  boys  entered. 

"  No,  we  haven't  found  him,"  said  Arthur,  in  answer 
to  his  white  sisters'  look.  "  But  we're  going  to." 

"  Yes,  we're  going  to,"  said  the  others.  And  then, 
walking  on  tiptoe  in  their  soaked  shoes,  they  went  softly 
into  an. inner  room. 

Here  on  a  couch  lay  Griffith  Carew,  dying. 

An  Italian  doctor  was  still  trying  to  do  something  for 
the  unconscious  man.  He  had  an  assistant,  and  the  two 
were  at  work  together.  Near  by,  old  Mrs.  Preston  sat 
waiting,  her  hands  folded  upon  the  knob  of  a  cane 
which  stood  on  the  floor  before  her,  her  chin  resting 
upon  her  hands.  In  this  bent  position,  with  her  disor- 
dered white  hair  and  great  black  eyes,  she  looked  witch- 
like.  Three  candles  burned  on  a  table  at  the  head  of 
the  bed,  illumining  Carew  and  the  two  doctors  and  the 
waiting  old  woman.  The  room  was  long,  and  its  far 
end  was  in  shadow.  Was  there  another  person  present 
— sitting  there  silent  and  motionless  ?  Yes — Pauline. 
The  boys  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  gazed  with 
full  hearts  at  Griff. 


84  NEPTUNE  S   SHORE 

Griff  had  been  shot  by  John  Ash  two  hours  before. 
The  deed  had  been  done  just  as  they  had  reached  the 
shelter  of  this  village,  swept  into  it  almost  by  a  torna- 
do, which,  preceding  the  darker  storm,  had  driven  them 
far  from  their  rightful  road.  The  darker  storm  had 
broken  upon  them  immediately  afterwards  with  a  terri- 
ble sound  and  fury ;  but  the  boys  had  barely  heard  the 
crash  in  the  sky  above  them  as  they  carried  Griff 
through  the  stony  little  street.  They  had  found  a 
doctor — two  of  them  ;  they  had  done  everything  possi- 
ble. Then  they  had  been  told  that  Griff  must  die,  and 
they  had  gone  out  to  look  for  the  murderer. 

He  could  not  be  far,  for  the  village  was  small,  and 
he  could  not  have  quitted  the  village,  because  the 
half-broken  young  horses  that  had  brought  him  from 
Salerno,  frightened  by  the  incessant  glare  of  the  light- 
ning, had  become  unmanageable,  dragged  their  fasten- 
ings loose,  and  disappeared.  In  any  case  the  plain  was 
impassable;  the  roar  of  the  sea,  with  the  night  coming 
on,  indicated  that  the  floods  were  out ;  they  had  covered 
the  shore,  and  would  soon  be  creeping  inland ;  the 
road  would  be  drowned  and  lost.  Ash,  therefore,  could 
not  be  far. 

Yet  they  had  been  unable  to  find  him,  though  they 
had  searched  every  house.  And  they  had  found  no 
trace  of  his  mother. 

During  these  long  hours  four  times  the  boys  had 
sallied  forth  and  hunted  the  street  up  and  down.  The 
Italians,  crowded  into  their  narrow  dark  dwellings 
from  fear  of  the  storm,  had  allowed  them  to  pass  freely 
in  and  out,  to  go  from  floor  to  floor ;  some  of  the  men 
had  even  lighted  their  little  oil  lamps  and  gone  down 
with  them  to  search  the  shallow  cellars.  But  the 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE  85 

women  did  not  look  up;  they  were  telling  their  beads 
or  kneeling  before  their  little  in -door  shrines,  the 
frightened  children  clinging  to  their  skirts  and  crying. 
For  both  the  street  and  the  dark  houses  were  lighted 
every  minute  or  two  by  that  unearthly  blinding  glare. 

The  village  version  of  the  story  was  that  the  two 
forestieri  had  sprung  at  each  other's  throats,  maddened 
by  jealousy ;  poniards  had  been  drawn,  and  one  of 
them  had  fallen.  One  had  fallen,  indeed,  but  only  one 
had  attacked.  And  there  had  been  no  poniards  :  it 
was  a  well-aimed  bullet  from  an  American  revolver  that 
had  struck  down  Griffith  Carew. 

The  four  boys,  brought  back  each  time  from  their 
search  by  a  sudden  hope  that  perhaps  Griff  might  have 
rallied,  and  forced  each  time  to  yield  up  their  hope  at 
the  sight  of  his  death-like  face,  were  animated  in  their 
grief  by  one  burning  determination :  they  would  bring 
the  murderer  to  justice.  It  was  a  foreign  land  and  a 
remote  shore  ;  they  were  boys ;  and  he  was  a  bold,  bad 
man  with  a  wonderful  brain — for  they  had  always  ap- 
preciated Ash's  cleverness,  though  they  had  never  liked 
him.  In  spite  of  all  this  he  should  not  escape ;  they 
would  hunt  him  like  hounds  —  blood- hounds  ;  and 
though  it  should  take  months,  even  years,  of  their 
lives,  they  would  bring  him  to  justice  at  the  last. 

This  hot  vow  kept  the  poor  lads  from  crying.  They 
were  very  young,  and  their  heads  were  throbbing  with 
their  unshed  tears ;  there  were  big  lumps  in  their 
throats  when  poor  Griff,  opening  his  dull  eyes  for  a 
moment,  knew  them,  and  tried  to  smile  in  his  cheery 
old  way.  But  he  relapsed  into  unconsciousness  im- 
mediately. And  the  watch  went  on. 

The  gloomy  day  drew  to  its  close;  by  the  clocks, 


86  NEPTUNE'S  SHORE 

evening  had  come.  There  was  more  breathing-space 
now  between  the  lightning  flashes  and  the  following 
thunder ;  the  wind  was  no  longer  violent ;  the  rain  still 
fell  heavily ;  its  torrent,  striking  the  pavement  below, 
sent  up  a  loud  hollow  sound.  One  of  the  doctors  left 
the  house,  and  came  back  with  a  fresh  supply  of 
candles  and  various  things,  vaguely  frightful,  because 
hidden,  concealed  in  a  sheet.  Then  the  other  doctor 
went  out  to  get  something  to  eat.  Finally  they  were 
both  on  guard  again.  And  the  real  night  began. 

Then,  to  the  waiting  group  in  the  lighted  silent  room, 
there  entered  a  tall  figure  —  Azubah  Ash;  drenched, 
without  bonnet  or  shawl,  she  stood  there  before  them. 
Her  frightened  look  was  gone  forever :  she  faced  them 
with  unconscious  majesty.  "  My  son  is  dead  " — this 
was  her  announcement. 

She  walked  forward  to  the  bed,  and  gazed  at  the  man 
lying  there.  "  Perhaps  he  will  not  die,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing her  head  to  glance  at  the  others.  "  God  is  kind — 
sometimes ;  perhaps  he  will  not  die."  She  bent  over 
and  stroked  his  hair  tenderly  with  her  large  hand. 
"  Dear  heart,  live  !  Try  ter  live !"  she  said  ;  "  we  want 
yer  to,  so  much  !" 

Then  she  left  him,  and  faced  them  again.  "  I  thought 
of  warning  you,"  she  began  ;  "  you  " — and  she  looked 
at  Mrs.  Preston;  "and  you" — she  turned  towards  the 
figure  at  the  end  of  the  room.  "  My  son  was  not  him- 
self "when  he  was  in  a  passion — I  have  known  it  ever 
sence  he  was  born.  Even  when  he  was  a  little  fellow 
of  two  and  three  I  used  ter  try  ter  guard  him  ;  but  I 
couldn't  do  much — his  will  was  stronger  than  mine. 
And  he  was  always  very  clever,  my  son  was — much 
cleverer  than  me.  Twice  before,  three  times  before, 


>»•"*._. 

56 


* 


THE    OLD    WATCH-TOWER 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE  87 

I've  ben  afraid  he'd  take  some  one's  life.  You  see,  he 
didn't  care  about  life  so  much  as  some  people  do ;  and 
now  he  has  taken  his  own." 

There  was  an  involuntary  stir  among  the  boys. 

Mrs.  Ash  turned  her  eyes  towards  them.  "Would 
you  like  ter  see  him,  so  's  ter  be  sure  ?  In  one  mo- 
ment." 

She  went  towards  the  bed  again,  and  clasped  her 
hands ;  then  she  knelt  down,  and  began  to  pray  beside 
the  unconscious  man  in  hushed  tones.  "  O  God,  O  our 
Father,  give  us  back  this  life :  do,  Lord — O  do.  It's 
so  dear  ter  these  poor  boys,  and  it's  so  dear  ter  many ; 
and  perhaps  there's  a  mother  too.  O  Lord,  give  it 
back  to  us !  And  when  he's  well  again,  help  him  ter 
be  all  that  my  poor  son  was  not.  For  Christ's  sake." 

She  rose  and  crossed  to  where  the  boys  were  stand- 
ing. "Will  you  come  now  ?"  she  said.  "I'm  taking 
him  away  at  dawn."  Then,  very  simply,  she  offered 
her  hand  to  Mrs.  Preston.  "  He  was  a  great  deal  at 
your  house  ;  he  told  me  that.  I  thank  you  for  having 
ben  so  kind  ter  him.  Good-bye." 

"  But  I  too  will  go  with  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Preston, 
in  her  deep  tones.  She  rose,  leaning  on  her  cane.  Mrs. 
Ash  was  already  crossing  the  room  towards  the  door. 

The  boys  followed  her ;  then  came  Mrs.  Preston, 
looking  bent  and  old.  The  figure  of  Pauline  in  her  dark 
corner  rose  as  they  approached. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Ash,  seeing  the  movement.  She 
paused.  "  Don't  come,  my  dear  ;  I  really  can't  let  you  ; 
you'd  think  of  it  all  the  rest  of  your  life  if  you  was  ter 
see  him  now,  and  'twould  make  you  feel  so  bad.  I 
know  you  didn't  mean  no  harm.  But  you  mustn't 
come." 


88  NEPTUNE'S  SHORE 

And  Pauline,  shrinking  back  into  the  shadow,  was 
held  there  by  the  compassion  of  this  mother  —  this 
mother  whose  nobler  nature,  and  large  glance  quiet  in 
the  majesty  of  sorrow,  made  her,  made  all  the  women 
present,  fade  into  nothingness  beside  her.  In  the  outer 
room  Isabella  and  the  excited,  peering  Abercrombies 
were  like  four  unimportant,  unnoticed  ghosts,  as  the 
little  procession  went  by  them  in  silence,  and  descended 
the  stairs.  Then  it  passed  out  into  the  storm. 

Mrs.  Ash  walked  first,  leading  the  way,  the  rain  fall- 
ing on  her  hair ;  the  three  boys  followed  ;  behind  them 
came  Mrs.  Preston,  leaning  on  her  nephew's  arm  and 
helping  herself  with  her  cane.  They  passed  down  the 
narrow  street,  and  the  people  brought  their  small  lamps 
to  the  doorways  to  aid  them  in  the  darkness.  The 
street  ended,  but  the  mother  went  on  :  apparently  she 
was  going  out  on  the  broad  waste.  They  all  followed, 
Mrs.  Preston  merely  shaking  her  head  when  Arthur 
proposed  that  she  should  turn  back. 

At  some  distance  beyond  the  town  there  was  a  grove 
of  oaks  ;  they  went  round  an  angle  of  this  grove,  stum- 
bling in  the  darkness, and  came  to  a  mound  behind  it; 
on  the  summit  of  the  mound  there  was  something — a 
square  structure  of  stone.  Mrs.  Ash  went  -up,  and  en- 
tered a  low  door.  Within  there  was  but  one  room, 
empty  save  for  a  small  lighted  lamp  standing  on  the 
dirt  floor;  a  stairway,  or  rather  a  flight  of  stone  steps, 
ascended  to  a  room  above.  Mrs.  Ash  took  the  lamp 
and  led  the  way  up ;  Mrs.  Preston's  cane  sounded  on 
the  stones  as  she  followed. 

The  room  above  was  square,  like  the  one  below ;  it 
was  the  whole  interior  of  the  ancient  house,  or  rather 
the  ancient  watch-tower;  its  roof  of  beams  was  broken; 


NEPTUNE'S  SHORE  89 

the  rain  came  through  in  several  places  and  dropped 
upon  the  floor.  There  was  a  second  small  lamp  in  the 
room  besides  the  one  which  Mrs.  Ash  had  brought;  the 
two  shed  a  dim  ray  over  a  peasant's  rude  bed,  where 
something  long  and  dark  and  straight  was  stretched  out. 
Mrs.  Ash  went  up  to  the  bed,  and  motioning  away  the 
old  peasant  who  was  keeping  watch  there,  she  took  both 
lamps  and  held  them  high  above  the  still  face.  The 
others  drew  near.  And  then  they  saw  that  it  was  John 
Ash — dead ! 

There  were  no  signs  of  the  horror  of  it ;  his  mother 
had  removed  them  all ;  he  lay  as  if  asleep. 

The  mother  held  the  lights  up  steadily  for  a  long 
moment.  Then  she  placed  them  on  a  table,  and  coming 
back,  took  her  son's  lifeless  hand  in  hers. 

"  Now  that  you've  seen  him,  seen  that  he's  really 
gone,  will  you  leave  me  alone  with  him  ?"  she  said.  "  I 
think  there's  nothing  more." 

There  was  a  dignity  in  her  face  as  she  stood  there 
beside  her  child  which  made  the  others  feel  suddenly 
conscious  of  the  wantonness  of  further  intrusion.  As 
they  looked  at  her,  too,  they  perceived  that  she  no  longer 
thought  of  them, no  longer  even  saw  them:  her  task 
was  ended. 

Without  a  word  they  went  out.  Mrs.  Preston's  cane 
sounded  on  the  stairway  again ;  then  there  was  silence. 

At  dawn  they  saw  her  drive  away.  Griff  might  live, 
the  doctors  had  said.  But  for  the  moment  the  gazing 
group  of  Americans  forgot  even  that.  She  was  in  a 
cart,  with  a  man  walking  beside  the  horse ;  the  cart  was 
going  slowly  across  the  fields,  for  the  road  was  over- 
flowed. The  storm  had  ceased ;  the  sky  was  blue ;  the 
sun,  rising,  shed  his  fresh  golden  lighten  the  tall,  lonely 


90  NEPTUNE S    SHORE 

figure  with  its  dark  hair  uncovered,  and  on  the  long 
rough  box  at  its  feet. 

Looking  the  other  way,  one  could  see  in  the  south  the 
beautiful  temples  of  Paestum,  that  have  gazed  over  that 
plain  for  more  than  two  thousand  years. 


A  PINK  VILLA 


"  YES,  of  the  three,  I  liked  Pierre  best,"  said  Mrs. 
Churchill.  "  Yet  it  was  hard  to  choose.  I  have  lived  so 
long  in  Italy  that  I  confess  it  would  have  been  a  pleas- 
ure to  see  Eva  at  court ;  it's  a  very  pretty  little  court 
they  have  now  at  Rome,  I  assure  you,  with  that  lovely 
Queen  Margherita  at  the  head.  The  old  Marchese  is  to 
resign  his  post  this  month,  and  the  King  has  already 
signified  his  intention  of  giving  it  to  Gino.  Eva,  as 
the  Marchesa  Lamberti,  living  in  that  ideal  old  Lam- 
berti  palace,  you  know — Eva,  I  flatter  myself,  would 
have  shone  in  her  small  way  as  brightly  as  Queen  Mar- 
gherita in  hers.  You  may  think  I  am  assuming  a  good 
deal,  Philip.  But  you  have  no  idea  how  much  pains 
has  been  taken  with  that  child ;  she  literally  is  fitted 
for  a  court  or  for  any  other  high  position.  Yet  at  the 
same  time  she  is  very  childlike.  I  have  kept  her  so 
purposely ;  she  has  almost  never  been  out  of  my  sight. 
The  Lambertis  are  one  of  the  best  among  the  old  Ro- 
man families,  and  there  could  not  be  a  more  striking 
proof  of  Gino's  devotion  than  his  having  persuaded  his 
father  to  say  (as  he  did  to  me  two  months  ago)  that  he 
should  be  proud  to  welcome  Eva  '  as  she  is,'  which 
meant  that  her  very  small  dowry  would  not  be  consid- 
ered an  objection.  As  to  Eva  herself,  of  course  the 


92  A    PINK    VILLA 

Lambertis,  or  any  other  family,  would  be  proud  to  re- 
ceive her,"  pursued  Mrs.  Churchill,  with  the  quiet  pride 
which  in  its  unruffled  serenity  became  her  well.  "But 
not  to  hesitate  over  her  mere  pittance  of  a  portion,  that 
is  very  remarkable ;  for  the  marriage-portion  is  consid- 
ered a  sacred  point  by  all  Italians ;  they  are  brought 
up  to  respect  it — as  we  respect  the  Constitution." 

"  It's  a  very  pretty  picture,"  answered  Philip  Dallas 
— "  the  court  and  Queen  Margherita,  the  handsome 
Gino  and  the  old  Lamberti  palace.  But  I'm  a  little  be- 
wildered, Fanny ;  you  speak  of  it  all  so  appreciatively, 
yet  Gino  was  certainly  not  the  name  you  mentioned ; 
Pierre,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  Pierre,"  answered  Mrs.  Churchill,  laughing 
and  sighing  with  the  same  breath.  "I've  strayed" far. 
But  the  truth  is,  I  did  like  Gino,  and  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  about  him.  No,  Eva  will  not  be  the  Marchesa 
Lamberti,  and  live  in  the  old  palace  ;  I  have  declined 
that  offer.  Well,  then,  the  next  was  Thornton  Stanley." 

"  Thornton  Stanley  ?  Has  he  turned  up  here  ?  I 
used  to  know  him  very  well." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  might." 

"  He  is  a  capital  fellow — when  he  can  forget  his  first 
editions." 

Mrs.  Churchill  folded  her  arms,  placing  one  hand  on 
each  elbow,  and  slightly  hugging  herself.  "  He  has 
forgotten  them  more  than  once  in  this  house,"  she  said, 
triumphantly. 

"  He  is  not  only  a  capital  fellow,  but  he  has  a  large 
fortune  —  ten  times  as  large,  I  venture  to  say,  as  your 
Lambertis  have." 

"I  know  that.     But—" 

"  But  you  prefer  an  old  palace.     I  am  afraid  Stan- 


A   PINK    VILLA  93 

ley  could  not  build  Eva  an  old  castle.  Couldn't  you 
manage  to  jog  on  -with  half  a  dozen  new  ones  ?" 

"  The  trouble  with  Thornton  Stanley  was  his  own 
uncertainty,"  said  Fanny ;  "  he  was  not  in  the  least  firm 
about  staying  over  here,  though  he  pretended  he  was. 
I  could  see  that  he  would  be  always  going  home.  More 
than  that,  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  if  at  the  end  of 
five  years — three  even — he  should  have  bought  or  built 
a  house  in  New  York,  and  settled  down  there  forever." 

"And  you  don't  want  that  for  your  American  daugh- 
ter, renegade  ?" 

Mrs.  Churchill  unfolded  her  arms.  "  No  one  can  be 
a  warmer  American  than  I  am,  Philip  —  no  one.  Dur- 
ing the  war  I  nearly  cried  my  eyes  out ;  have  you  for- 
gotten that?  I  scraped  lint;  I  wanted  to  go  to  the 
front  as  nurse  —  everything.  What  days  they  were! 
We  lived  then.  I  sometimes  think  we  have  never  lived 
since." 

Dallas  felt  a  little  bored.  He  was  of  the  same"  age  as 
Fanny  Churchill ;  but  the  school-girl,  whose  feelings 
were  already  those  of  a  woman,  had  had  her  nature 
stirred  to  its  depths  by  events  which  the  lad  had  been 
too  young  to  take  seriously  to  heart.  His  heart  had 
never  caught  up  with  them,  though,  of  course,  his  rea- 
son had. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are  flamingly  patriotic,"  he  said. 
"  All  the  same,  you  don't  want  Eva  to  live  in  Fiftieth 
Street." 

"In  Fiftieth  Street?" 

"  I  chose  the  name  at  random.     In  New  York." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  sarcastic,"  said  Fan- 
ny. "  Of  course  I  expect  to  go  back  myself  some  time  ; 
I  could  not  be  content  without  that.  But  Eva — Eva  is 


94  A    PINK    VILLA 

different ;  she  has  been  brought  up  over  here  entirely ; 
she  was  only  three  when  I  came  abroad.  It  seems  such 
a  pity  that  all  that  should  be  wasted." 

"And  why  should  it  be  wasted  in  Fiftieth  Street?" 

"  The  very  qualities  that  are  admired  here  would  be 
a  drawback  to  her  there,"  replied  Mrs.  Churchill.  "  A 
shy  girl  who  cannot  laugh  and  talk  with  everybody, 
who  has  never  been  out  alone  a  step  in  her  life,  where 
would  she  be  in  New  York  ?  —  I  ask  you  that.  While 
here,  as  you  see,  before  she  is  eighteen — " 

"  Isn't  the  poor  child  eighteen  yet  ?  Why  in  the 
world  do  you  want  to  rnarry  her  to  any  one  for  five 
years  more  at  least?" 

Mrs.  Churchill  threw  up  her  pretty  hands.  "  How 
little  you  have  learned  about  some  things,  Philip,  in 
spite  of  your  winters  on  the  Nile  and  your  Scotch 
shooting  -  box  !  I  suppose  it  is  because  you  have  had 
no  daughters  to  consider." 

"  Daughters  ?  —  I  should  think  not !"  was  Dallas's 
mental  exclamation.  Fanny,  then,  with  all  her  sense, 
was  going  to  make  that  same  old  mistake  of  supposing 
that  a  bachelor  of  thirty -seven  and  a  mother  of  thirty- 
seven  were  of  the  same  age. 

"  Why,  it's  infinitely  better  in  every  way  that  a  nice 
girl  like  Eva  should  be  married  as  soon  as  possible  after 
her  school  -  books  are  closed,  Philip,"  Mrs.  Churchill 
went  on ;  "  for  then,  don't  you  see,  she  can  enter  soci- 
ety— which  is  always  so  dangerous — safely;  well  pro- 
tected, and  yet  quite  at  liberty  as  well.  I  mean,  of 
course,  in  case  she  has  a  good  husband.  That  is  the 
mother's  business,  the  mother's  responsibility,  and  I 
think  a  mother  who  does  not  give  her  heart  to  it,  her 
whole  soul  and  energy,  and  choose  well  —  I  think  such 


A    PINK    VILLA  95 

a  mother  an  infamous  woman.  In  this  case  I  am  sure 
I  have  chosen  well ;  I  am  sure  Eva  will  be  happy  with 
Pierre  de  Verneuil.  They  have  the  same  ideas ;  they 
have  congenial  tastes,  both  being  fond  of  music  and 
art.  And  Pierre  is  a  very  lovable  fellow ;  you  will 
think  so  yourself  when  you  see  him." 
"And  you  say  she  likes  him?" 

"  Very  much.  I  should  not  have  gone  on  with  it,  of 
course,  if  there  had  been  any  dislike.  They  are  not 
formally  betrothed  as  yet ;  that  is  to  come  soon ;  but 
the  old  Count  (Pierre's  father)  has  been  to  see  me,  and 
everything  is  virtually  arranged — a  delightful  man,  the 
old  Count.  They  are  to  make  handsome  settlements  ; 
not  only  are  they  rich,  but  they  are  not  in,  tlie  least  nar- 
row —  as  even  the  best  Italians  are,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
The  Verneuils  are  cosmopolitans;  they  have  been  every- 
where ;  their  estate  is  near  Brussels,  but  they  spend 
most  of  their  time  in  Paris.  They  will  never  tie  Eva 
down  in  any  small  way.  In  addition,  both  father  and 
son  are  extremely  nice  to  me." 
"  Ah  !"  said  Dallas,  approvingly. 
"  Yes ;  they  have  the  French  ideas  about  mothers ; 
you  know  that  in  France  the  mother  is  and  remains 
the  most  important  person  in  the  family."  As  she 
said  this,  Mrs.  Churchill  unconsciously  lifted  herself 
and  threw  back  her  shoulders.  Ordinarily  the  line 
from  the  knot  of  her  hair  behind  to  her  waist  was  long 
and  somewhat  convex,  while  correspondingly  the  dis- 
tance between  her  chin  and  her  belt  in  front  was  sur- 
prisingly short :  she  was  a  plump  woman,  and  she  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  leaning  upon  a  certain  beguiling 
steel  board,  which  leads  a  happy  existence  in  wrappings 
of  white  kid  and  perfumed  lace. 


96  A    I'lXK    VILLA 

"  Not  only  will  they  never  wish  to  separate  me 
from  Eva,"  she  went  on,  still  abnormally  erect,  "l»ut 
such  a  thought  would  never  enter  their  minds;  they 
think  it  an  honor  and  a,  pleasure  to  have  me  with 
them  ;  the  old  Count  assured  me  of  it  in  those  very 
words." 

"  And  now  we  have  the  secret  of  the  Belgian  suc- 
cess," said  Dallas. 

"Yes.  But  I  have  not  been  selfish  ;  I  have  tried  to 
consider  everything;  I  have  investigated  carefully.  If 
you  will  stay  half  an  hour  longer  you  can  see  Pierre 
for  yourself ;  and  then  I  know  that  you  will  agree 
with  me." 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  the  Belgian  appeared — a 
slender,  handsome  young  man  of  twenty-two,  with  an 
ease  of  manner  and  grace  in  movement  which  no  Amer- 
ican of  that  age  ever  had.  With  all  his  grace,  however, 
and  his  air  of  being  a  man  of  the  world,  there  was 
such  a  charming  expression  of  kindliness  and  purity 
in  his  still  boyish  eyes  that  any  mother,  with  her 
young  daughter's  happiness  at  heart,  might  have  been 
pardoned  for  coveting  him  as  a  son-in-law.  This  Dallas 
immediately  comprehended.  "  You  have  chosen  well," 
he  said  to  Fanny,  when  they  were  left  for  a  moment 
alone  ;  "  the  boy's  a  jewel." 

Before  the  arrival  of  Pierre,  Eva  Churchill,  followed 
by  her  governess,  had  come  out  to  join  her  mother  on 
the  terrace ;  Eva's  daily  lessons  were  at  an  end,  save 
that  the  music  went  on ;  Mile.  Legrand  was  retained  as 
a  useful  companion. 

Following  Pierre,  two  more  visitors  appeared,  not  to- 
gether; one  was  an  Englishman  of  fifty,  small,  mea- 
gre, plain  iu  face ;  the  other  an  American,  somewhat 


A   PINK   VILLA  97 

younger,  a  short,  ruddy  man,  dressed  like  an  Englishman. 
Mrs.  Churchill  mentioned  their  names  to  Dallas:  "Mr. 
Gordon-Gray."  "  Mr.  Ferguson." 

It  soon  appeared  that  Mr.  Gordon-Gray  and  Mr.  Fer- 
guson were  in  the  habit  of  looking  in  every  afternoon, 
at  about  that  hour,  for  a  cup  of  tea.  Dallas,  who  hated 
tea,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  the  scene, 
watched  Fanny  especially,  with  the  amused  eyes  of  a 
contemporary  who  remembers  a  different  past.  Fanny 
was  looking  dimpled  and  young;  her  tea  was  excellent, 
her  tea  -  service  elaborate  (there  was  a  samovar)  ;  her 
daughter  was  docile,  her  future  son-in-law  a  Count  and 
6.  pearl ;  in  addition,  her  terrace  was  an  enchanting 
place  for  lounging,  attached  as  it  was  to  a  pink-faced 
villa  that  overlooked  the  sea. 

Nor  were  there  wanting  other  soft  pleasures.  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Murray -Churchill,  how  delicious  is  this  nest  of 
yours !"  said  the  Englishman,  with  quiet  ardor ;  "  I 
never  come  here  without  admiring  it." 

Fanny  answered  him  in  a  steady  voice,  though  there 
was  a  certain  flatness  in  its  tone  :  "  Yes,  it's  very  pretty 
indeed."  Her  face  was  red  ;  she  knew  that  Dallas  was 
laughing;  she  would  not  look  in  his  direction.  Dallas, 
however,  had  taken  himself  off  to  the  parapet,  where 
he  could  have  his  laugh  out  at  ease:  to  be  called  Mrs. 
Murray -Churchill  as  a  matter  of  course  in  that  way — 
what  joy  for  Fanny  ! 

Eva  was  listening  to  the  busy  Mark  Ferguson;  he 
was  showing  her  a  little  silver  statuette  which  he  had 
unearthed  that  morning  in  Naples,  "in  a  dusty  out- 
of-the-way  shop,  if  you  will  believe  it,  where  there  was 
nothing  else  but  rubbish — literally  nothing.  From  the 
chasing  I  am  inclined  to  think  it's  fifteenth  century. 

7 


98  A    PINK    VILLA 

But  you  will  need  glasses  to  see  it  well ;  I  can  lend 
you  a  pair  of  mine." 

"  I  can  see  it  perfectly — thanks,"  said  Eva.  "  It  is 
very  pretty,  I  suppose." 

"  Pretty,  Miss  Churchill  ?  Surely  it's  a  miracle  !" 
Ferguson  protested. 

Pierre,  who  was  sitting  near  the  mother,  glanced 
across  and  smiled.  Eva  did  not  smile  in  reply  ;  she 
was  looking  vaguely  at  the  blackened  silver ;  but  when 
he  came  over  to  see  for  himself  the  miracle,  then  she 
smiled  very  pleasantly. 

Pierre  was  evidently  deeply  in  love ;  he  took  no 
pains  to  conceal  it ;  but  during  the  two  hours  he  spent 
there  he  made  no  effort  to  lure  the  young  girl  into  the 
drawing-room,  or  even  as  far  as  the  parapet.  He  was 
very  well  bred.  At  present  he  stood  beside  her  and 
beside  Mark  Ferguson,  and  talked  about  the  statuette. 
"It  seems  to  me  old  Vienna,"  he  said. 

"  Signer  Bartalama,"  announced  Angelo,  Mrs.  Church- 
ill's man-servant,  appearing  at  the  long  window  of  the 
drawing-room  which  served  as  one  of  the  terrace  doors; 
he  held  the  lace  curtains  apart  eagerly,  with  the  smiling 
Italian  welcome. 

Fanny  had  looked  up,  puzzled.  But  when  her  eyes 
fell  upon  the  figure  emerging  from  the  lace  she  recog- 
nized it  instantly.  "Horace  Bartholomew!  Now 
from  what  quarter  of  the  heavens  do  you  drop  this 
time «" 

"  So  glad  you  call  it  heaven,"  said  the  new-comer,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand.  "  But  from  heaven  indeed  this 
time,  Mrs.  Churchill — I  say  so  emphatically  ;  from  our 
own  great,  grand  country — with  the  permission  of  the 
present  company  be  it  spoken."  And  he  bowed  slightly 


A    PINK    VILLA  99 

to  the  Englishman  and  Pierre,  his  discriminating  glance 
including  even  the  little  French  governess,  who  smiled 
(though  non-comprehendingly)  in  reply.  "  May  I  pre- 
sent to  you  a  compatriot,  Mrs.  Churchill  ?"  he  went  on. 
"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  him  without 
waiting  for  formal  permission ;  he  is,  in  fact,  in  your 
drawing-room  now.  His  credentials,  however,  are 
small  and  puny  ;  they  consist  entirely  of  the  one  item 
— that  I  like  him." 

"  That  will  do  perfectly,"  said  Fanny,  smiling. 

Bartholomew  went  back  to  the  window  and  parted 
the  curtains.  "  Come,"  he  said.  A  tall  man  appeared. 
"  Mrs.  Churchill,  let  me  present  to  you  Mr.  David 
Rod." 

Mrs.  Churchill  was  gracious  to  the  stranger ;  she 
offered  him  a  chair  near  hers,  which  he  accepted  ;  a 
cup  of  tea,  which  he  declined  ;  and  the  usual  small 
questions  of  a  first  meeting,  which  only  very  original 
minds  are  bold  enough  to  jump  over.  The  stranger 
answered  the  questions  promptly ;  he  was  evidently  not 
original.  He  had  arrived  two  days  before  ;  this  was 
his  first  visit  to  Italy ;  the  Bay  of  Naples  was  beauti- 
ful;  he  had  not  been  up  Vesuvius;  he  had  not  visited 
Pompeii ;  he  was  not  afraid  of  fever  ;  and  he  had  met 
Horace  Bartholomew  in  Florida  the  year  before. 

"  I  am  told  they  are  beginning  to  go  a  great  deal  to 
Florida,"  remarked  Fanny. 

"  I  don't  go  there ;  I  live  there,"  Rod  answered. 

"  Indeed  !  in  what  part  ?"  (She  brought  forward 
the  only  names  she  knew.)  "St.  Augustine,  perhaps? 
Or  Tallahassee  ?" 

"  No ;  I  live  on  the  southern  coast ;  at  Punta  Pal- 
mas  ?" 


100  A    PINK    VILLA. 

"How  Spanish  that  is!  Perhaps  you  have  one  of 
those  old  Spanish  plantations  ?"  She  had  now  ex- 
hausted all  her  knowledge  of  the  State  save  a  vague 
memory  of  her  school  geography  :  "  Where  are  the 
Everglades?"  "They  are  in  the  southern  part  of  Flor- 
ida. They  are  shallow  lakes  filled  with  trees."  But 
the  stranger  could  hardly  live  in  such  a  place  as  that. 

"  No,"  answered  Rod  ;  "  my  plantation  isn't  old  and 
it  isn't  Spanish  ;  it's  a  farm,  and  quite  new.  I  am 
over  here  now  to  get  hands  for  it." 

"  Hands  ?" 

"Yes,  laborers — Italians.  They  work  very  well  in 
Florida." 

Eva  and  Mademoiselle  Legrand  had  turned  with 
Pierre  to  look  at  the  magnificent  sunset.  "  Did  you 
receive  the  flowers  I  sent  this  morning?"  said  Pierre, 
bending  his  head  so  that  if  Eva  should  glance  up  when 
she  answered,  he  should  be  able  to  look  into  her  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  they  were  beautiful,"  said  Eva,  giving  the 
hoped-for  glance. 

"  Yet  they  are  not  in  the  drawing-room." 

"You  noticed  that?"  she  said,  smiling.  "They  are 
in  the  music-room  ;  Mademoiselle  put  them  there." 

"They  are  the  flowers  for  Mozart,  are  they  not?" 
said  Mademoiselle — "  heliotrope  and  white  lilies  ;  and 
we  have  been  studying  Mozart  this  morning.  The 
drawing-room,  as  you  know,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  is  al- 
ways full  of  roses." 

"  And  how  do  you  come  on  with  Mozart  ?"  asked 
Pierre. 

"  As  usual,"  answered  Eva.  "  Not  very  well,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Mademoiselle  twisted  her  handkerchief  round  her 


A   PINK    VILLA  101 

fingers.  She  was  passionately  fond  of  music ;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  pupil,  who  played  accurately, 
was  not.  Pierre  also  was  fond  of  music,  and  played 
with  taste.  He  had  not  perceived  Eva's  coldness  in 
this  respect  simply  because  he  saw  no  fault  in  her. 

"  I  want  to  make  up  a  party  for  the  Deserto,"  he 
went  on,  "  to  lunch  there.  Do  you  think  Madame 
Churchill  will  consent  I" 

"  Probably,"  said  Eva. 

"  I  hope  she  will.  For  when  we  are  abroad  together, 
under  the  open  sky,  then  it  sometimes  happens  I  can 
stay  longer  by  your  side." 

"Yes;  we  never  have  very  long  talks,  do  we?"  re- 
marked Eva,  reflectively. 

"  Do  you  desire  them  ?"  said  Pierre,  with  ardor. 
"Ah,  if  you  could  know  how  I  do  !  With  me  it  is  one 
long  thirst.  Say  that  you  share  the  feeling,  even  if 
only  a  little  ;  give  me  that  pleasure." 

"  No,"  said  Eva  laughing,  "  I  don't  share  it  at  all. 
Because,  if  we  should  have  longer  talks,  you  would  find 
out  too  clearly  that  I  am  not  clever." 

"  Not  clever !"  said  Pierre,  with  all  his  heart  in  his 
eyes.  Then,  with  his  unfailing  politeness,  he  included 
Mademoiselle.  "  She  is  clever,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  She  is  good,"  answered  Mademoiselle,  gravely. 
"  Her  heart  has  a  depth — but  a  depth  !" 

"  I  shall  fill  it  all,"  murmured  Pierre  to  Eva.  "  It  is 
not  that  I  myself  am  anything,  but  my  love  is  so  great, 
so  vast ;  it  holds  you  as  the  sea  holds  Capri.  Some 
time — some  time,  you  must  let  me  try  to  tell  you  !" 

Eva  glanced  at  him.  Her  eyes  had  for  the  moment 
a  vague  expression  of  curiosity. 

This  little  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  French; 


102  A    PINK   VILLA 

Mademoiselle  spoke  no  English,  and  Pierre  would  have 
been  incapable  of  the  rudeness  of  excluding  her  by 
means  of  a  foreign  tongue. 


The  pink  villa  was  indeed  a  delicious  nest,  to  use  the 
Englishman's  phrase.  It  crowned  one  of  the  perpen- 
dicular cliffs  of  Sorrento,  its  rosy  facade  overlooking 
what  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  expanse  of  water  in 
the  world  —  the  Bay  of  Naples.  The  broad  terrace 
stretched  from  the  drawing  room  windows  to  the  verge 
of  the  precipice  ;  leaning  against  its  strong  stone  para- 
pet, with  one's  elbows  comfortably  supported  on  the 
flat  top  (which  supported  also  several  battered  god- 
desses of  marble),  enjoying  the  shade  of  a  lemon-tree  set 
in  a  great  vase  of  tawny  terra-cotta — leaning  thus,  one 
could  let  one's  idle  gaze  drop  straight  down  into  the 
deep  blue  water  below,  or  turn  it  to  the  white  line  of 
Naples  opposite,  shining  under  castled  heights,  to  Ve- 
suvius with  its  plume  of  smoke,  or  to  beautiful  dark 
Ischia  rising  from  the  waves  in  the  west,  guarding  the 
entrance  to  the  sea.  On  each  side,  close  at  hand,  the 
cliffs  of  Sorrento  stretched  away,  tipped  with  their  vil- 
las, with  their  crowded  orange  and  lemon  groves.  Each 
villa  had  its  private  stairway  leading  to  the  beach  below ;  • 
strange  dark  passages,  for  the  most  part  cut  in  the  solid 
rock,  winding  down  close  to  the  face  of  the  cliff,  so  that 
every  now  and  then  a  little  rock-window  can  let  in  a 
gleam  of  light  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  those  who  are 
descending.  For  every  one  does  descend :  to  sit  and 
read  among  the  rocks;  to  bathe  from  the  bathing-house 


A    PINK    VILLA  103 

on  the  fringe  of  beach  ;  to  embark  for  a  row  to  the 
grottos  or  a  sail  to  .Capri. 

The  afternoon  which  followed  the  first  visit  of  Philip 
Dallas  to  the  pink  villa  found  him  there  a  second  time; 
again  he  was  on  the  terrace  with  Fanny.  The  plunging 
sea  -  birds  of  the  terrace's  mosaic  floor  were  partially 
covered  by  a  large  Persian  rug,  and  it  was  upon  this 
rich  surface  that  the  easy-chairs  were  assembled,  and 
also  the  low  tea-table,  which  was  of  a  construction  so 
solid  that  no  one  could  possibly  knock  it  over.  A  keen 
observer  had  once  said  that  that  table  was  in  itself  a  suf- 
ficient indication  that  Fanny's  house  was  furnished  to 
attract  masculine,  not  feminine,  visitors  (a  remark  which 
was  perfectly  true). 

"  You  are  the  sun  of  a  system  of  masculine  planets, 
Fanny,"  said  Dallas.  "After  long  years,  that  is  how  I 
find  you." 

"  Oh,  Philip — we  who  live  so  quietly  !" 

"  So  is  the  sun  quiet,  I  suppose  ;  I  have  never  heard 
that  he  howled.  Mr.  Gordon -Gray,  Mark  Ferguson, 
Pierre  de  Vernueil,  Horace  Bartholomew,  unknown 
Americans.  Do  they  come  to  see  Eva  or  you  ?" 

"  They  come  to  see  the  view — as  you  do  ;  to  sit  in 
the  shade  and  talk.  I  give  very  good  dinners  too," 
Fanny  added,  with  simplicity. 

"  O  romance !  good  dinners  on  the  Bay  of  Naples  !" 

"  Well,  you  may  laugh  ;  but  nothing  draws  men  of  a 
certain  age — of  a  certain  kind,  I  mean ;  the  most  satis- 
factory men,  in  short — nothing  draws  them  so  surely  as 
a  good  dinner  delicately  served,"  announced  Fanny, 
with  decision.  "  Please  go  and  ring  for  the  tea." 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  they  all  hang  about  you,"  re- 
marked Dallas  as  he  came  back,  his  eyes  turning  from 


104  A   PINK    VILLA 

• 

the  view  to  his  hostess  in  her  easy-chair.  "Your  villa 
is  admirable,  and  you  yourself,  as  you  sit  there,  are  the 
person ification  of  comfort,  the  personification,  too,  of 
gentle,  sweet,  undemonstrative  affectionateness.  Do 
you  know  that,  Fanny  .;" 

Fanny,  with  a  very  pink  blush,  busied  herself  in  ar- 
ranging the  table  for  the  coming  cups. 

Dallas  smiled  inwardly.  "  She  thinks  I  am  in  love 
with  her  because  I  said  that  about  affectionateness,"  he 
thought.  "  Oh,  the  fatuity  of  women  !" 

At  this  moment  Eva  came  out,  and  presently  ap- 
peared Mr.  Gordon-Gray  and  Mark  Ferguson.  A  little 
later  came  Horace  Bartholomew.  The  tea  had  been 
brought;  Eva  handed  the  cups.  Dallas,  looking  at  her, 
was  again  struck  by  something  in  the  manner  and  bear- 
ing of  Fanny's  daughter.  Or  rather  he  was  not  struck 
by  it ;  it  was  an  impression  that  made  itself  felt  by  de- 
grees, as  it  had  done  the  day  before — a  slow  discovery 
that  the  girl  was  unusual. 

She  was  tall,  dressed  very  simply  in  white.  Her 
thick  smooth  flaxen  hair  was  braided  in  two  long  flat 
tresses  behind,  which  were  doubled  and  gathered  up 
with  a  ribbon,  so  that  they  only  reached  her  shoulders. 
This  school -girl  coiffure  became  her  young  face  well. 
Yes,  it  was  a  very  young  face.  Yet  it  was  a  serious 
face  too.  "  Our  American  girls  are  often  serious,  and 
when  they  are  brought  up  under  the  foreign  system  it 
really  makes  them  too  quiet,"  thought  Dallas.  Eva  had 
a  pair  of  large  gray  eyes  under  dark  lashes :  these  eyes 
were  thoughtful ;  sometimes  they  were  dull.  Her 
smooth  complexion  was  rather  brown.  The  oval  of 
her  face  was  perfect.  Though  her  dress  was  so  child- 
like, her  figure  was  womanly ;  the  poise  of  her  head 


A    PINK    VILLA  105 

was  noble,  her  step  light  and  free.  Nothing  could  be 
more  unlike  the  dimpled,  smiling  mother  than  was  this 
tall,  serious  daughter  who  followed  in  her  train.  Dal- 
las tried  to  recall  Edward  Churchill  (Edward  Murray 
Churchill),  but  could  not ;  he  had  only  seen  him  once. 
"He  must  have  been  an  obstinate  sort  of  fellow,"  he 
said  to  himself.  The  idea  had  come  to  him  suddenly 
from  something  in  Eva's  expression.  Yet  it  was  a  sweet 
expression ;  the  curve  of  the  lips  was  sweet, 

"  She  isn't  such  a  very  pretty  girl,  after  all,"  he  re- 
flected, summing  her  up  finally  before  he  dismissed 
her.  "  Fanny  is  a  clever  woman  to  have  made  it  ap- 
pear that  she  is." 

At  this  moment  Eva,  having  finished  her  duties  as 
cup-bearer,  walked  across  the  terrace  and  stood  by  the 
parapet,  outlined  against  the  light. 

"  By  Jove  she's  beautiful !"  thought  Dallas. 

Fanny's  father  had  not  liked  Edward  Churchill ;  he 
had  therefore  left  his  money  tied  up  in  such  a  way  that 
neither  Churchill  nor  any  children  whom  he  might 
have  should  be  much  benefited  by  it;  Fanny  herself, 
though  she  had  a  comfortable  income  for  life,  could 
not  dispose  of  it.  This  accounted  for  the  very  small 
sum  belonging  to  Eva :  she  had  only  the  few  hundreds 
that  came  to  her  from  her  father. 

But  she  had  been  brought  up  as  though  she  had 
many  thousands ;  studiedly  quiet  as  her  life  had  been, 
studiedly  simple  as  her  attire  always  was,  in  every  oth- 
er respect  her  existence  had  been  arranged  as  though  a 
large  fortune  certainly  awaited  her.  This  had  been  the 
mother's  idea;  she  had  been  sure  from  the  beginning 
that  a  large  fortune  did  await  her  daughter.  It  now 
appeared  that  she  had  been  right. 


106  A   PINK   VILLA 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  thought  of  me  for  bringing 
a  fellow-countryman  down  upon  you  yesterday  in  that 
unceremonious  way,  Mrs.  Churchill,"  Bartholomew  was 
saying.  "But  I  wanted  to  do  something  for  him  —  I 
met  him  at  the  top  of  your  lane  by  accident ;  it  was  an 
impulse." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure — any  friend  of  yours — "  said  Fanny, 
looking  into  the  teapot. 

Bartholomew  glanced  round  the  little  circle  on  the 
rug,  with  an  expression  of  dry  humor  in  his  brown 
eyes.  "  You  didn't  any  of  you  like  him — I  see  that," 
he  said. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Well,  be  is  rather  a  commonplace  individual,  isn't 
he  ?"  said  Dallas,  unconsciously  assuming  the  leadership 
of  this  purely  feminine  household. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  commonplace  ;  but 
yes,  I  do,  coming  from  you,  Dallas.  Rod  has  never 
been  abroad  in  his  life  until  now  ;  and  he's  a  man  with 
convictions." 

"  Oh,  come,  don't  take  that  tone,"  said  Mark  Fergu- 
son ;  "  I've  got  convictions  too ;  I'm  as  obstinate  about 
them  as  an  Englishman." 

"  What  did  your  convictions  tell  you  about  Rod, 
then,  may  I  ask  ?"  pursued  Bartholomew. 

"  I  didn't  have  much  conversation  with  him,  you  may 
remember;  I  thought  he  had  plenty  of  intelligence. 
His  clothes  were — were  a  little  peculiar,  weren't  they  ?" 

"Made  in  Tampa,  probably.  And  I've  no  doubt  but 
that  he  took  pains  with  them — wanted  to  have  them 
appropriate." 

"  That  is  where  he  disappointed  me,"  said  Gordon- 
Gray — "that  very  appearance  of  having  taken  pains. 


A    PINK    VILLA  107 

When  I  learned  that  he  came  from  that — that  place  in 
the  States  you  have  just  named — a  wild  part  of  the 
country,  is  it  not  ? — I  thought  he  would  be  more — more 
interesting.  But  he  might  as  well  have  come  from 
Clerkenwell." 

"  You  thought  he  would  be  more  wild,  you  mean  ; 
trousers  in  his  boots  ;  long  hair  ;  knives." 

All  the  Americans  laughed. 

"  Yes.  I  dare  say  you  cannot  at  all  comprehend  our 
penchant  for  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  the  Englishman, 
composedly.  "And — er — I  am  afraid  there  would  be 
little  use  in  attempting  to  explain  it  to  you.  But  this 
Mr.  Rod  seemed  to  me  painfully  unconscious  of  his  op- 
portunities ;  he  told  me  (when  I  asked)  that  there  was 
plenty  of  game  there — deer,  and  even  bears  and  pan- 
thers— royal  game  ;  yet  he  never  hunts." 

"  He  never  hunts,  because  he  has  something  better  to 
do,"  retorted  Bartholomew. 

"Ah,  better?"  murmured  the  Englishman,  doubt- 
fully. 

Bartholomew  got  up  and  took  a  chair  which  was  nearer 
Fanny.  "  No — no  tea,"  he  said,  as  she  made  a  motion 
towards  a  cup  ;  then,  without  further  explaining  his 
change  of  position,  he  gave  her  a  little  smile.  Dallas, 
who  caught  this  smile  on  the  wing,  learned  from  it  un- 
expectedly that  there  was  a  closer  intimacy  between  his 
hostess  and  Bartholomew  than  he  had  suspected.  "  Bar- 
tholomew !"  he  thought,  contemptuously.  "  Gray — 
spectacles — stout."  Then  suddenly  recollecting  the 
increasing  plumpness  of  his  own  person,  he  drew  in  his 
out-stretched  legs,  and  determined,  from  that  instant,  to 
walk  fifteen  miles  a  day. 

"  Rod  knows  how  to  shoot,  even  though  he  doesn't 


108  A    PINK    VILLA 

hunt,"  said  Bartholomew,  addressing  the  Englishman. 
"  I  saw  him  once  bring  down  a  mad  bull,  who  was 
charging  directly  upon  an  old  man — the  neatest  sort  of 
a  hit." 

"  He  himself  being  in  a  safe  place  meanwhile,"  said 
Dallas. 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  had  to  rush  forward  into  an 
open  field.  If  he  had  missed  his  aim  by  an  eighth  of 
an  inch,  the  beast — a  terrible  creature — would  have 
made  an  end  of  him." 

"  And  the  poor  old  man  ?"  said  Eva. 

"  He  was  saved,  of  course ;  he  was  a  rather  disrep- 
utable old  darky.  Another  time  Rod  went  out  in  a 
howling  gale  —  the  kind  they  have  down  there  —  to 
rescue  two  men  whose  boat  had  capsized  in  the  bay. 
They  were  clinging  to  the  bottom  ;  no  one  else  would 
stir ;  they  said  it  was  certain  death ;  but  Rod  went  out 
— he's  a  capital  sailor — and  got  them  in.  I  didn't  see 
that  myself,  as  I  saw  the  bull  episode  ;  I  was  told  about 
it." 

"By  Rod?"  said  Dallas. 

"  By  one  of  the  men  he  saved.  As  you've  never  been 
saved  yourself,  Dallas,  you  probably  don't  know  how  it 
feels." 

"  He  seems  to  be  a  modern  Chevalier  Bayard,  doesn't 
he  ?"  said  good-natured  Mark  Ferguson. 

"  He's  modern,  but  no  Bayard.  He's  a  modern  and 
a  model  pioneer — " 

"  Pioneers  !  oh,  pioneers  !"  murmured  Gordon-Gray, 
half  chanting  it. 

None  of  the  Americans  recognized  his  quotation. 

"  He's  the  son  of  a  Methodist  minister,"  Bartholomew 
went  on,  "  His  father,  a  missionary,  wandered  down 


A   PINK    VILLA  109 

to  Florida  in  the  early  days,  and  died  there,  leaving  a 
sickly  wife  and  seven  children.  You  know  the  sort  of 
man — a  linen  duster  for  a  coat,  prunella  shoes,  always 
smiling  and  hopeful — a  great  deal  about  '  Brethren.' 
Fortunately  they  could  at  least  be  warm  in  that  climate, 
and  fish  were  to  be  had  for  the  catching ;  but  I  suspect 
it  was  a  struggle  for  existence  while  the  boys  were  small. 
David  was  the  youngest;  his  five  brothers,  who  had 
come  up  almost  laborers,  were  determined  to  give  this 
lad  a  chance  if  they  could ;  together  they  managed  to 
send  him  to  school,  and  later  to  a  forlorn  little  Metho- 
dist college  somewhere  in  Georgia.  David  doesn't  call 
it  forlorn,  mind  you  ;  he  still  thinks  it  an  important  in- 
stitution. For  nine  years  now — he  is  thirty — he  has 
taken  care  of  himself ;  he  and  a  partner  have  cleared 
this  large  farm,  and  have  already  done  well  with  it. 
Their  hope  is  to  put  it  all  into  sugar  in  time,  and  a 
Northern  man  with  capital  has  advanced  them  the 
money  for  this  Italian  colonization  scheme :  it  has  been 
tried  before  in  Florida,  and  has  worked  well.  They 
have  been  very  enterprising,  David  and  his  partner; 
they  have  a  saw-mill  running,  and  two  school-houses 
already — one  for  whites,  one  for  blacks.  You  ought 
to  see  the  little  darkies,  with  their  wool  twisted  into 
twenty  tails,  going  proudly  in  when  the  bell  rings,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Fanny. 

"And  the  white  children,  do  they  go  too?"  said 
Eva. 

"Yes,  to  their  own  school-house — lank  girls,  in  im- 
mense sun-bonnets,  stalking  on  long  bare  feet.  He  has 
got  a  brisk  little  Yankee  school-mistress  for  them.  In 
ten  years  more  I  declare  he  will  have  civilized  that  en- 
tire neighborhood." 


110  A    PINK    VILLA 

"  You  are  evidently  the  Northern  man  with  capital," 
said  Dallas. 

"  I  don't  care  in  the  least  for  your  sneers,  Dallas ; 
I'm  not  the  Northern  man,  but  I  should  like  to  be.  If 
I  admire  Rod,  with  his  constant  driving  action,  his  in- 
domitable pluck,  his  simple  but  tremendous  belief  in 
the  importance  of  what  he  has  undertaken  to  do,  that's 
my  own  affair.  I  do  admire  him  just  as  he  stands, 
clothes  and  all ;  I  admire  his  creaking  saw-mill ;  I  ad- 
mire his  groaning  dredge ;  I  even  admire  his  two  hide- 
ously ugly  new  school-houses,  set  staring  among  the 
stumps." 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,  does  he  preach  in  the  school- 
houses  on  Sundays  and  Friday  evenings,  say  ?"  asked 
Ferguson.  "  Because  if  he  does  he  will  make  no 
money,  whatever  else  he  may  make.  They  never  do  if 
they  preach." 

"  It's  his  father  who  was  the  minister,  not  he,"  said 
Bartholomew.  "  David  never  preached  in  his  life  ;  he 
wouldn't  in  the  least  know  how.  In  fact,  he's  no  talker 
at  all ;  he  says  very  little  at  any  time  ;  he's  a  doer — 
David  is;  he  does  things.  I  declare  it  used  to  make  me 
sick  of  myself  to  see  how  much  that  fellow  accomplished 
every  day  of  his  life  down  there,  and  thought  nothing 
of  it  at  all." 

"And  what  were  you  doing  'down  there,'  besides 
making  yourself  sick,  if  I  may  ask?"  said  Fergu- 
son. 

"  Oh,  I  went  down  for  the  hunting,  of  course.  What 
else  does  one  go  to  such  a  place  for  ?" 

"  Tell  me  a  little  about  that,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said 
the  Englishman,  interested  for  the  first  time. 

"  M.  de  Verneuil  wants  us  all  to  go  to  the  Deserto 


A    PINK    VILLA  111 

some  day  soon,"  said  Fanny ;  "  a  lunch  party.  We 
shall  be  sure  to  enjoy  it;  M.  de  Verneuil's  parties  are 
always  delightful." 


Hi 

The  end  of  the  week  had  been  appointed  for  Pierre's 
excursion. 

The  morning  opened  fair  and  warm,  with  the  veiled 
blue  that  belongs  to  the  Bay  of  Naples,  the  soft  hazy 
blue  which  is  so  different  from  the  dry  glittering  clear- 
ness of  the  Riviera. 

Fanny  was  mounted  on  a  donkey ;  Eva  preferred  to 
walk,  and  Mademoiselle  accompanied  her.  Pierre  had 
included  in  his  invitation  the  usual  afternoon  assem- 
blage at  the  villa — Dallas,  Mark  Ferguson,  Bartholomew, 
Gordon-Gray,  and  David  Rod. 

For  Fanny  had,  as  Dallas  expressed  it,  "  taken  up  " 
Rod ;  she  had  invited  him  twice  to  dinner.  The  super- 
fluous courtesy  had  annoyed  Dallas,  for  of  course,  as 
Rod  himself  was  nothing,  less  than  nothing,  the  ex- 
planation must  lie  in  the  fact  that  Horace  Bartholomew 
had  suggested  it.  "Bartholomew  was  always  wrong- 
headed;  always  picking  up  some  perfectly  impossible 
creature,  and  ramming  him  down  people's  throats,"  he 
thought,  with  vexation. 

Bartholomew  was  walking  now  beside  Fanny's 
donkey. 

Mark  Ferguson  led  the  party,  as  it  moved  slowly 
along  the  narrow  paved  road  that  winds  in  zigzags  up 
the  mountain ;  Eva,  Mademoiselle,  Pierre,  Dallas,  and 
Rod  came  next.  Fannv  a»ad  Bartholomew  were  behind; 


112  A    PUCK    VILLA 

and  behind  still,  walking  alone  and  meditatively,  came 
Gordon-Gray,  who  looked  at  life  (save  for  the  hunting) 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  Italian  Renaissance.  Gordon- 
Gray  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  Malatesta  family  ;  he 
had  made  a  collection  of  Renaissance  cloak  clasps;  he 
had  written  an  essay  on  the  colors  of  the  long  hose 
worn  in  the  battling,  leg-displaying  days  which  had 
aroused  his  admiration,  aroused  it  rather  singularly, 
since  he  himself  was  as  far  as  possible  from  having 
been  qualified  by  nature  to  shine  in  such  vigorous  so- 
ciety. 

Pierre  went  back  to  give  some  directions  to  one  of 
the  men  in  the  rear  of  their  small  procession. 

When  he  returned,  "  So  the  bears  sometimes  get 
among  the  canes  ?"  Eva  was  saying. 

"  But  then,  how  very  convenient,"  said  Pierre  ;  "  for 
they  can  take  the  canes  and  chastise  them  punctually." 
He  spoke  in  his  careful  English. 

"  They're  sugar-canes,"  said  Rod. 

"  It's  his  plantation  we  are  talking  about,"  said  Eva. 
"  Once  it  was  a  military  post,  he  says.  Perhaps  like 
Ehrenbreitstein." 

" Exactly,"  said  Dallas,  from  behind;  "the  same  mas- 
sive frowning  stone  walls." 

"  There  were  four  one-story  wooden  barracks  once," 
said  Rod;  "whitewashed;  flag -pole  in  the  centre. 
There's  nothing  now  but  a  chimney ;  we've  taken  the 
boards  for  our  mill." 

"  See  the  cyclamen,  good  folk,"  called  out  Gordon- 
Gray. 

On  a  small  plateau  near  by  a  thousand  cyclamen, 
white  and  pink,  had  lifted  their  wings  as  if  to  fly  away. 
Off  went  Pierre  to  get  them  for  Eva. 


ON    THE    WAY    TO    THE    DESEKTO 


A    PINK    VILLA  113 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  the  bears  in  the  canes  your- 
self ?"  pursued  Eva. 

"  I've  seen  them  in  many  places  besides  canes,"  an- 
swered Rod,  grimly. 

"  I  too  have  seen  bears,"  Eva  went  on.  "  At  Berne, 
you  know." 

"  The  Punta  Palmas  bears  are  quite  the  same,"  com- 
mented Dallas.  "  When  they  see  Mr.  Rod  coming  they 
sit  up  on  their  hind  legs  politely.  And  he  throws  them 
apples." 

"  No  apples  ;  they  won't  grow  there,"  said  Rod,  re- 
gretfully. "  Only  oranges." 

"'Do  you  make  the  saw-mill  go  yourself — with  your 
own  hands  ?"  pursued  Eva. 

"  Not  now.     I  did  once." 

"  Wasn't  it  very  hard  work  ?" 

"That?  Nothing  at  all.  You  should  have  seen  us 
grubbing  up  the  stumps — Tipp  and  I !" 

"  Mr.  Tipp  is  perhaps  your  partner  ?"  said  Dallas. 

"  Yes ;  Jim  Tipp.  Tipp  and  Rod  is  the  name  of  the 
firm." 

"Tipp  —  and  Rod,"  repeated  Dallas,  slowly.  Then 
with  quick  utterance,  as  if  trying  it,  "  Tippandrod." 

Pierre  was  now  returning  with  his  flowers.  As  he 
joined  them,  round  the  corner  of  their  zigzag,  from  a 
pasture  above  came  a  troop  of  ponies  that  had  escaped 
from  their  driver,  and  were  galloping  down  to  Sorren- 
to ;  two  and  two  they  came  rushing  on,  too  rapidly  to 
stop,  and  everybody  pressed  to  one  side  to  give  them 
room  to  pass  on  the  narrow  causeway. 

Pierre  jumped  up  on  the  low  stone  wall  and  extended 
his  hand  to  Eva.  "  Come  !"  he  said,  hastily. 

Rod  put  out  his  arm  and  pushed  each  outside  pony, 


114  A    PINK    VILLA 

as  he  passed  Eva,  forcibly  against  his  mate  who  had  the 
inside  place ;  a  broad  space  was  thus  left  beside  her, 
and  she  had  no  need  to  leave  the  causeway.  She  had 
given  one  hand  to  Pierre  as  a  beginning  ;  he  held  it 
tightly.  Mademoiselle  meanwhile  had  climbed  the  wall 
like  a  cat.  There  were  twenty  of  the  galloping  little 
nags ;  they  took  a  minute  or  two  to  pass.  Rod's  out- 
stretched hands,  as  he  warded  them  off,  were  seen  to  be 
large  and  brown. 

Eva  imagined  them  "  grubbing  up "  the  stumps. 
"  What  is  grubbing  ?"  she  said. 

"  It  is  writing  for  the  newspapers  in  a  street  in  Lon- 
don," said  Pierre,  jumping  down.  "  And  you  must 
wear  a  torn  coat,  I  believe."  Pierre  was  proud  of  his 
English. 

He  presented  his  flowers. 

Mademoiselle  admired  them  volubly.  "  They  are  like 
souls  just  ready  to  wing  their  way  to  another  world," 
she  said,  sentimentally,  with  her  head  on  one  side.  She 
put  her  well-gloved  hand  in  Eva's  arm,  summoned  Pierre 
with  an  amiable  gesture  to  the  vacant  place  at  Eva's  left 
hand,  and  the  three  walked  on  together. 

The  Deserto,  though  disestablished  and  dismantled, 
like  many  another  monastery,  by  the  rising  young  king- 
dom, held  still  a  few  monks ;  their  brown-robed  breth- 
ren had  aided  Pierre's  servant  in  arranging  the  table  in 
the  high  room  which  commands  the  wonderful  view  of 
the  sea  both  to  the  north  and  the  south  of  the  Sorrento 
peninsula,  with  Capri  lying  at  its  point  too  fair  to  be  real 
— like  an  island  in  a  dream. 

"  0  la  douce  folie — 
Aimable  Capri  1" 


AT    THE   DKSERTO 


A    PIXK    VILLA  115 

said  Mark  Ferguson.  No  one  knew  what  he  meant ;  he 
did  not  know  himself.  It  was  a  poetical  inspiration — 
so  he  said. 

The  lunch  was  delicate,  exquisite  ;  everything  save 
the  coffee  (which  the  monks  wished  to  provide  :  coffee, 
black-bread,  and  grapes  which  were  half  raisins  was  the 
monks'  idea  of  a  lunch)  had  been  sent  np  from  Sorren- 
to. Dallas,  who  was  seated  beside  Fanny,  gave  her  a 
congratulatory  nod. 

"  Yes,  all  Pierre  does  is  well  done,"  she  answered,  in 
a  low  tone,  unable  to  deny  herself  this  expression  of  ma- 
ternal content. 

Pierre  was  certainly  a  charming  host.  He  gave  them 
a  toast;  he  gave  them  two;  he  gave  them  a  song:  he 
had  a  tenor  voice  which  had  been  admirably  cultivated, 
and  his  song  was  gay  and  sweet.  He  looked  very  hand- 
some ;  he  wore  one  of  the  cyclamen  in  his  button-hole ; 
Eva  wore  the  rest,  arranged  by  the  deft  fingers  of  Mad- 
emoiselle in  a  knot  at  her  belt.  But  at  the  little  feast 
Fanny  was  much  more  prominent  than  her  daughter : 
this  was  Pierre's  idea  of  what  was  proper;  he  asked  her 
opinion,  he  referred  everything  to  her  with  a  smile  which 
was  homage  in  itself.  Dallas,  after  a  while,  was  seized 
with  a  malicious  desire  to  take  down  for  a  moment  this 
too  prosperous  companion  of  his  boyhood.  It  was  after 
Pierre  had  finished  his  little  song.  "  Do  you  ever  sing 
now,  Fanny  ?"  he  asked,  during  a  silence.  "  I  remem- 
ber how  you  used  to  sing  Trancadillo." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  refer  to,"  an- 
swered Fanny,  coldly. 

Another  week  passed.  They  sailed  to  Capri ;  they 
sailed  to  Ischia;  they  visited  Pompeii.  Bartholomew 
suggested  these  excursions.  Eva  too  showed  an  almost 


116  A    PINK    VILLA 

passionate  desire  for  constant  movement,  constant  action. 
"  Where  shall  we  go  to-day,  mamma  ?"  she  asked  every 
morning. 

One  afternoon  they  were  strolling  through  an  orange 
grove  on  the  outskirts  of  Sorrento.  Under  the  trees 
the  ground  was  ploughed  and  rough ;  low  stone  cop- 
ings, from  whose  interstices  innumerable  violets  swung, 
ran  hither  and  thither,  and  the  paths  followed  the  cop- 
ings. The  fruit  hung  thickly  on  the  trees.  Above  the 
high  wall  which  surrounded  the  place  loomed  the  cam- 
panile of  an  old  church.  While  they  were  strolling  the 
bells  rang  the  Angelas,  swinging  far  out  against  the 
blue. 

Rod,  who  was  of  the  party,  was  absent-minded ;  he 
looked  a  little  at  the  trees,  but  said  nothing,  and  after 
a  while  he  became  absent-bodied  as  well,  for  he  fell  be- 
hind the  others,  and  pursued  his  meditations,  whatever 
they  were,  in  solitude. 

"  He  is  bothered  about  his  Italians,"  said  Bartholo- 
mew ;  "  he  has  only  secured  twenty  so  far." 

Pierre  joined  Fanny;  he  had  not  talked  with  her  that 
afternoon,  and  he  now  came  to  fulfil  the  pleasant  duty. 
Eva,  who  had  been  left  with  Mademoiselle,  turned  round, 
and  walking  rapidly  across  the  ploughed  ground,  joined 
Rod,  who  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  low  stone  walls  at 
some  distance  from  the  party.  Mademoiselle  followed 
her,  putting  on  her  glasses  as  she  went,  in  order  to  see 
her  way  over  the  heaped  ridges.  She  held  up  her  skirts, 
and  gave  ineffectual  little  leaps,  always  landing  in  the 
wrong  spot,  and  tumbling  up  hill,  as  Dallas  called  it. 
"  Blue,"  he  remarked,  meditatively.  Every  one  glanced 
in  that  direction,  and  it  was  perceived  that  the  adjec- 
tive described  the  hue  of  Mademoiselle's  birdlike  ankles. 


A    PINK    VILLA.  H7 

"  For  shame  !"  said  Fanny. 

But  Dallas  continued  bis  observations.  "  Do  look 
across,"  he  said,  after  a  while  ;  "  it's  too  funny.  The 
French  woman  evidently  thinks  that  Rod  should  rise,  or 
else  that  Eva  should  be  seated  also.  But  her  panto- 
mime passes  unheeded  ;  neither  Eva  nor  the  backwoods- 
man is  conscious  of  her  existence." 

"  Eva  is  so  fond  of  standing,"  explained  Fanny.  "  I 
often  say  to  her, '  Do  sit  down,  child  ;  it  tires  me  to  see 
you.'  But  Eva  is  never  tired." 

Pierre,  who  had  a  spray  of  orange  buds  in  his  hand, 
pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  waved  it  imperceptibly  tow- 
ards his  betrothed.  "  In  everything  she  is  perfect — per- 
fect," he  murmured  to  the  pretty  mother. 

"  Rod  doesn't  in  the  least  mean  to  be  rude,"  began 
Bartholomew. 

"  Oh,  don't  explain  that  importation  of  yours  at  this 
late  day,"  interposed  Dallas  ;  "  it  isn't  necessary.  He 
is  accustomed  to  sitting  on  fences  probably ;  he  belongs 
to  the  era  of  the  singing-school." 

This  made  Fanny  angry.  For  as  to  singing-schools, 
there  had  been  a  time — a  remote  time  long  ago — and 
Dallas  knew  it.  She  had  smiled  in  answer  to  Pierre's 
murmured  rapture  ;  she  now  took  his  arm.  To  punish 
Dallas  she  turned  her  steps — on  her  plump  little  feet  in 
their  delicate  kid  boots — towards  the  still  seated  Rod, 
with  the  intention  of  asking  him  (for  the  fifth  time)  to  din- 
ner. This  would  not  only  exasperate  Dallas,  but  it  would 
please  Bartholomew  at  the  same  stroke.  Two  birds,  etc. 

When  they  came  up  to  the  distant  three,  Mademoi- 
selle glanced  at  Mrs.  Churchill  anxiously.  But  in  the 
presence  of  the  mistress  of  the  villa,  Rod  did  at  last  lift 
his  long  length  from  the  wall. 


118  A    PINK    VILLA 

This  seemed,  however,  to  be  because  he  supposed 
they  were  about  to  leave  the  grove.  "Is  the  walk  over?" 
he  said. 

Pierre  looked  at  Eva  adoringly.  He  gave  her  the 
spray  of  orange  buds. 


IV 

A  week  later  Fanny's  daughter  entered  the  bedroom 
which  she  shared  with  her  mother. 

From  the  girl's  babyhood  the  mother  had  had  her 
small  white  -  curtained  couch  placed  close  beside  her 
own.  She  could  not  have  slept  unless  able  at  any  mo- 
ment to  stretch  out  her  hand  and  touch  her  sleeping 
child. 

Fanny  was  in  the  dressing-room  ;  hearing  Eva's  step, 
she  spoke.  "  Do  you  want  me,  Eva  ?" 

"  Yes,  please." 

Fanny  appeared,  a  vision  of  white  arms,  lace,  and 
embroidery. 

"  I  thought  that  Rosine  would  not  be  here  yet,"  said 
Eva.  Rosine  was  their  maid  ;  her  principal  occupation 
was  the  elaborate  arrangement  of  Fanny's  brown  hair. 

"  No,  she  isn't  there — if  you  mean  in  the  dressing- 
room,"  answered  Fanny,  nodding  her  head  towards  the 
open  door. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you  alone,  mamma,  for  a  moment. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  shall  not  marry  Pierre." 

Fanny,  who  had  sunk  into  an  easy  -  chair,  at  these 
words  sprang  up.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you  ill  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  mamma ;  I  am  only  telling  you 
that  I  cannot  marrv  Pierre." 


A    PINK    VILLA  119 

• 

"  You  must  be  ill,"  pursued  Fanny.  "  You  have 
fever.  Don't  deny  it."  And  anxiously  she  took  the 
girl's  hands.  But  Eva's  hands  were  cooler  than  her 
own. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  any  fever,"  replied  Eva.  She 
had  been  taught  to  answer  all  her  mother's  questions  in 
fullest  detail.  "  I  sleep  and  eat  as  usual ;  I  have  no 
headache." 

Fanny  still  looked  at  her  anxiously.  "  Then  if  you 
are  not  ill,  what  can  be  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"  I  have  only  told  you,  mamma,  that  I  could  not 
marry  Pierre ;  it  seems  to  me  very  simple." 

She  was  so  quiet  that  Fanny  began  at  last  to  realize 
that  she  was  in  earnest.  "  My  dearest,  you  know  you 
like  Pierre.  You  have  told  me  so  yourself." 

"I  don't  like  him  now." 

"  What  has  he  done — poor  Pierre  ?  He  will  explain, 
apologize  ;  you  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"  He  has  done  nothing  ;  I  don't  want  him  to  apolo- 
gize. He  is  as  he  always  is.  It  is  I  who  have  changed." 

"Oh,  it  is  you  who  have  changed,"  repeated  Fanny, 
bewildered. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Eva. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  and  tell  mamma  all  about  it. 
You  are  tired  of  poor  Pierre — is  that  it  ?  It  is  very 
natural,  he  has  been  here  so  often,  and  stayed  so  long. 
But  I  will  tell  him  that  he  must  go  away — leave  Sor- 
rento. And  he  shall  stay  away  as  long  as  you  like, 
Eva  ;  just  as  long  as  you  like." 

"  Then  he  will  stay  away  forever,"  the  girl  answered, 
calmly. 

Fanny  waited  a  moment.  "  Did  you  like  Gino  bet- 
ter ?  Is  that  it?1'  she  said,  softly,  watching  Eva's  face. 


120  A    PLXK   VILLA. 

«•  No." 

"  Thornton  Stanley  T 

"Oh  no!" 

"Dear  child,  explain  this  a  little  to  your  mother 
Yon  know  I  think  only  of  your  happiness,"  said  Fanny, 
with  tender  solicitude. 

Era  evidently  tried  to  obey.  "  It  was  this  morning. 
It  came  over  me  suddenly  that  I  could  not  possibly 
marry  him.  Now  or  a  year  from  now.  Never."  She 
spoke  tranquilly;  she  even  seemed  indifferent.  Bat 
this  one  decision  was  made. 

"  Yon  know  that  I  have  given  my  word  to  the  old 
Count,"  began  Fanny,  in  perplexity. 

Eva  was  silent 

•*  And  everything  was  arranged.** 

Eva  still  said  nothing.  She  looked  about  the  room 
with  wandering  attention,  as  though  this  did  not  con- 
cern her. 

u  Of  course  I  would  never  force  yon  into  anything," 
Fanny  went  on.  "  But  I  thought  Pierre  would  be  so 
congenial."  In  her  heart  she  was  asking  herself  what 
the  young  Belgian  could  have  done.  "  Well,  dear," 
she  continued,  with  a  little  sigh,  "you  must  always  tell 
mamma  everything."  And  she  kissed  her. 

"  Of  course,"  Eva  answered.   And  then  she  went  away. 

Fanny  immediately  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for 
Mademoiselle.  But  Mademoiselle  knew  nothing  about 
it.  She  was  overwhelmed  with  surprise  and  dismay. 
She  greatly  admired  Pierre ;  even  more  she  admired 
the  old  Count,  whom  she  thought  the  most  distinguished 
of  men.  Fanny  dismissed  the  afflicted  little  woman, 
and  sat  pondering.  While  she  was  thinking,  Eva  re- 
entered. 


A   P1XK   VILLA  121 

"  Mamma,  I  forgot  to  say  that  I  should  like  to  hare 
you  tell  Pierre  immediately.  To-day." 

Fanny  was  almost  irritated.  "  You  hare  never  taken 
that  tone  before,  my  daughter.  Hare  yon.  no  longer 
confidence  in  my  judgment !" 

"  If  you  do  not  want  to  tell  him  this  afternoon,  it 
can  be  easily  arranged,  mamma  ;  I  will  not  come  to  the 
dinner-table ;  that  is  alL  I  do  not  wish  to  see  him  un- 
til he  knows." 

Pierre  was  to  dine  at  the  villa  that  evening. 

••  What  can  he  have  done  T*  thought  Fanny  again. 

She  rang  for  Rosine ;  half  an  hour  later  she  was  in 
the  drawing-room.  "  Excuse  me  to  every  one  but  M. 
de  Yerneuil,"  she  said  to  Angelo.  She  was  very  ner- 
vous, but  she  had  decided  upon  her  course  :  Pierre  must 
leave  Sorrento,  and  remain  away  until  she  herself  should 
call  him  back. 

"  At  the  end  of  a  month,  perhaps  even  at  the  end  of 
a  week,  she  will  miss  yon  so  much  that  I  shall  have  to 
issue  the  summons,"  she  said,  speaking  as  gayly  as  she 
could,  as  if  to  make  it  a  sort  of  joke.  It  was  very  hard 
for  her,  at  best,  to  send  away  the  frank,  handsome  boy. 

Poor  Pierre  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  He  de- 
clared over  and  over  again  that  nothing  he  had  said, 
nothing  he  had  done,  could  possibly  have  offended  his 
betrothed.  "  But  surely  you  know  yourself  that  it  is 
impossible !"  he  added,  clasping  his  hands  beseech- 
ingly. 

"  It  is  a  girlish  freak,"  explained  the  mother.  **  She 
is  so  young,  you  know." 

"  But  that  is  the  very  reason.  I  thought  it  was  only 
older  women  who  say  what  they  wish  to  do  in  that  de- 
cided way ;  who  have  freaks,  as  you  call  it/"  said  the 


122  A    PINK    VILLA 

Belgian,  his  voice  for  a  moment  much  older,  more  like 
the  voice  of  a  man  who  has  spent  half  his  life  in  Paris. 

This  was  so  true  that  Fanny  was  driven  to  a  defence 
that  scarcely  anything  else  would  have  made  her  use. 
"  Eva  is  different  from  the  young  girls  here,"  she  said. 
"  You  must  not  forget  that  she  is  an  American." 

At  last  Pierre  went  away  ;  he  had  tried  to  bear  him- 
self as  a  gentleman  should ;  but  the  whole  affair  was  a 
mystery  to  him,  and  he  was  very  unhappy.  He  went 
as  far  as  Rome,  and  there  he  waited,  writing  to  Fanny 
an  anxious  letter  almost  every  day. 

In  the  meanwhile  life  at  the  villa  went  on  ;  there  were 
many  excursions.  Fanny's  thought  was  that  Eva 
would  miss  Pierre  more  during  these  expeditions  than 
at  other  times,  for  Pierre  had  always  arranged  them, 
and  he  had  enjoyed  them  so  much  himself  that  his  gay 
spirits  and  his  gay  wit  had  made  all  the  party  gay. 
Eva,  however,  seemed  very  happy,  and  at  length  the 
mother  could  not  help  being  touched  to  see  how  light- 
hearted  her  serious  child  had  become,  now  that  she  was 
entirely  free.  And  yet  how  slight  the  yoke  had  been, 
and  how  pleasant !  thought  Fanny.  At  the  end  of  two 
weeks  there  were  still  no  signs  of  the  "  missing  "  upon 
which  she  had  counted.  She  thought  that  she  would 
try  the  effect  of  briefly  mentioning  the  banished  man. 
"  I  hear  from  Pierre  almost  every  day,  poor  fellow.  He 
is  in  Rome." 

"Why  does  he  stay  in  Rome?"  said  Eva.  "Why 
doesn't  he  return  home?" 

"  I  suppose  he  doesn't  want  to  go  so  far  away,"  an- 
swered Fanny,  vaguely. 

"  Far  away  from  what  ?  Home  should  always  be  the 
first  place,"  responded  the  young  moralist.  "  Of  course 


A    PINK    VILLA  123 

you  have  told  him,  mamma,  that  I  shall  never  be  his 
wife  ?  That  it  is  forever  ?"  And  she  turned  her  gray 
eyes  towards  her  mother,  for  the  first  time  with  a  shade 
of  suspicion  in  them. 

"  Never  is  a  long  word,  Eva." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !"  The  girl  rose.  "  I  shall  write  to 
him  myself,  then." 

"How  you  speak  !  Do  you  wish  to  disobey  me,  my 
own  little  girl?" 

"  No  ;  but  it  is  so  dishonest ;  it  is  like  a  lie." 

"  My  dear,  trust  your  mother.  You  have  changed 
once ;  you  may  change  again." 

"  Not  about  this,  mamma.  Will  you  please  write  this 
very  hour,  and  make  an  end  of  it  ?" 

"You  are  hard,  Eva.  You  do  not  think  of  poor 
Pierre  at  all." 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  of  Pierre." 

"  And  is  there  any  one  else  you  think  of  ?  I  must 
ask  you  that  once  more,"  said  Fanny,  drawing  her 
daughter  down  beside  her  caressingly.  Her  thoughts 
could  not  help  turning  again  towards  Gino,  and  in  her 
supreme  love  for  her  child  she  now  accomplished  the 
mental  somerset  of  believing  that  on  the  whole  she  pre- 
ferred the  young  Italian  to  all  the  liberty,  all  the  per- 
sonal consideration  for  herself,  which  had  been  em- 
bodied in  the  name  of  Verneuil. 

"  Yes,  there  is  some  one  else  I  think  of,"  Eva  replied, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  In  Rome  ?"  said  Fanny. 

Eva  made  a  gesture  of  denial  that  was  fairly  con- 
temptuous. 

Fanny's  mind  flew  wildly  from  Bartholomew  to 
Dallas,  from  Ferguson  to  Gordon-Gray  :  Eva  had  no 


124  A   PINK   VILLA 

acquaintances  save  those  which  were  her  mother's 
also. 

"  It  is  David  Rod,"  Eva  went  on,  in  the  same  low 
tone.  Then,  with  sudden  exaltation,  her  eyes  gleaming, 
"  I  have  never  seen  any  one  like  him." 

It  was  a  shock  so  unexpected  that  Mrs.  Churchill  drew 
her  breath  under  it  audibly,  as  one  does  under  an  actual 
blow.  But  instantly  she  rallied.  She  said  to  herself 
that  she  had  got  a  romantic  idealist  for  a  daughter — 
that  was  all.  She  had  not  suspected  it;  she  had  thought 
of  Eva  as  a  lovely  child  who  would  develop  into  what 
she  herself  had  been.  Fanny,  though  far-seeing  and 
intelligent,  had  not  been  endowed  with  imagination. 
But  now  that  she  did  realize  it,  she  should  know  how 
to  deal  with  it.  A  disposition  like  that,  full  of  vision- 
ary fancies,  was  not  so  uncommon  as  some  people  sup- 
posed. Horace  Bartholomew  should  take  the  Floridian 
away  out  of  Eva's  sight  forever,  and  the  girl  would  soon 
forget  him ;  in  the  meanwhile  not  one  word  that  was 
harsh  should  be  spoken  on  the  subject,  for  that  would 
be  the  worst  policy  of  all. 

This  train  of  thought  had  passed  through  her  mind 
like  a  flash.  "  My  dear,"  she  began,  as  soon  as  she  had 
got  her  breath  back,  "  you  are  right  to  be  so  honest  with 
me.  Mr.  Rod  has  not — has  not  said  anything  to  you 
on  the  subject,  has  he  ?" 

"  No.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  he  cares  nothing  for  me  ? 
I  think  he  despises  me — I  am  so  useless !"  And  then 
suddenly  the  girl  began  to  sob  ;  a  passion  of  tears. 

Fanny  was  at  her  wits'  end  ;  Eva  had  not  wept  since 
the  day  of  her  baby  ills,  for  life  had  been  happy  to  her, 
loved,  caressed,  and  protected  as  she  had  been  always, 
like  a  hot-house  flower. 


A    PINK    VILLA  125 

"  My  darling,"  said  the  mother,  taking  her  in  her 
arms. 

But  Eva  wept  on  and  on,  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
It  ended  in  Fanny's  crying  too. 


Early  the  next  morning  her  letter  to  Bartholomew 
was  sent.  Bartholomew  had  gone  to  Munich  for  a 
week.  The  letter  begged,  commanded,  that  he  should 
make  some  pretext  that  would  call  David  Rod  from  Sor- 
rento at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  She  counted 
upon  her  fingers  ;  four  days  for  the  letter  to  go  and  the 
answer  to  return.  Those  four  days  she  would  spend  at 
Capri. 

Eva  went  with  her  quietly.  There  had  been  no  more 
conversation  between  mother  and  daughter  about  Rod ; 
Fanny  thought  that  this  was  best. 

On  the  fourth  day  there  came  a  letter  from  Bartholo- 
mew. Fanny  returned  to  Sorrento  almost  gayly  :  the 
man  would  be  gone. 

But  he  was  not  gone.  Tranquillized,  glad  to  be  at 
home  again,  Mrs.  Churchill  was  enjoying  her  terrace 
and  her  view,  when  Angelo  appeared  at  the  window : 
"  Signor  Ra." 

Angelo's  mistress  made  him  a  peremptory  sign. 
"  Ask  the  gentleman  to  wait  in  the  drawing-room,"  she 
said.  Then  crossing  to  Eva,  who  had  risen,  "  Go  round 
by  the  other  door  to  our  own  room,  Eva,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

The  girl  did  not  move ;  her  face  had  an  excited  look. 
"  But  why—" 


126  A    PIXK    VILLA 

"Go,  child;  go." 

Still  Eva  stood  there,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  long 
window  veiled  in  lace  ;  she  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe. 

Her  mother  was  driven  to  stronger  measures.  "  You 
told  me  yourself  that  he  cared  nothing  for  you." 

A  deep  red  rose  in  Eva's  cheeks  ;  she  turned  and  left 
the  terrace  by  the  distant  door. 

The  mother  crossed  slowly  to  the  long  window  and 
parted  the  curtains.  "  Mr.  Rod,  are  you  there  ?  Won't 
you  come  out  ?  Or  stay — I  will  join  you."  She  en- 
tered the  drawing-room  and  took  a  seat. 

Rod  explained  that  he  was  about  to  leave  Sorrento ; 
Bartholomew  had  summoned  him  so  urgently  that  he 
did  not  like  to  refuse,  though  it  was  very  inconvenient 
to  go  at  such  short  notice. 

"  Then  you  leave  to-morrow  ?"  said  Fanny  ;  "  perhaps 
to-night?" 

"  No  ;  on  Monday.  I  could  not  arrange  my  business 
before." 

"  Three  days  more,"  Fanny  thought. 

She  talked  of  various  matters ;  she  hoped  that  some 
one  else  would  come  in  ;  but,  by  a  chance,  no  one  ap- 
peared that  day,  neither  Dallas,  nor  Ferguson,  nor  Gor- 
don-Gray. "  What  can  have  become  of  them  ?"  she 
thought,  with  irritation.  After  a  while  she  gave  an  in- 
ward start;  she  had  become  conscious  of  a  foot-fall 
passing  to  and  fro  behind  the  half-open  door  near  her — 
a  door  which  led  into  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  very 
soft  foot-fall  upon  a  thick  carpet,  but  she  recognized  it: 
it  was  Eva.  She  was  there — why  ?  The  mother  could 
think  of  no  good  reason.  Her  heart  began  to  beat 
more  quickly  ;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  did  not 
know  her  child.  This  person  walking  up  and  down  be- 


A    PINK    VILLA  127 

hind  that  door  so  insistently,  this  was  not  Eva.  Eva 
was  docile  ;  this  person  was  not  docile.  What  would 
be  done  next?  She  felt  strangely  frightened.  It  was 
a  proof  of  her  terror  that  she  did  not  dare  to  close  the 
door  lest  it  should  be  instantly  reopened.  She  began 
to  watch  every  word  she  said  to  Rod,  who  had  not  per- 
ceived the  foot-fall.  She  began  to  be  extraordinarily 
polite  to  him  ;  she  stumbled  through  the  most  irrele- 
vant complimentary  sentences.  Her  dread  was,  every 
minute,  lest  Eva  should  appear. 

But  Eva  did  not  appear  ;  and  at  last,  after  long  lin- 
gering, Rod  went  away.  Fanny,  who  had  hoped  to 
bid  him  a  final  farewell,  had  not  dared  to  go  through 
that- ceremony.  He  said  that  he  should  come  again. 

When  at  last  he  was  gone  the  mother  pushed  open 
the  half-closed  door.  "  Eva,"  she  began.  She  had  in- 
tended to  be  severe,  as  severe  as  she  possibly  could  be ; 
but  the  sight  of  Eva  stopped  her.  The  girl  had  flung 
herself  down  upon  the  floor,  her  bowed  head  resting 
upon  her  arms  on  a  chair.  Her  attitude  expressed  a 
hopeless  desolation. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Fanny,  rushing  to  her. 

Eva  raised  her  head.  "  He  never  once  spoke  of  me 
— asked  for  me,"  she  murmured,  looking  at  her  mother 
with  eyes  so  dreary  with  grief  that  any  one  must  have 
pitied  her. 

Her  mother  pitied  her,  though  it  was  an  angry  pity, 
too — a  non-comprehending,  jealous,  exasperated  feeling. 
She  sat  down  and  gathered  her  child  to  her  breast  with 
a  gesture  that  was  almost  fierce.  That  Eva  should  suf- 
fer so  cruelly  when  she,  Fanny,  would  have  made  any 
sacrifice  to  save  her  from  it,  would  have  died  for  her 
gladly,  were  it  not  that  she  was  the  girl's  only  pro- 


128  A    PINK   VILLA 

lector — oh,  what  fate  had  come  over  their  happy  life 
together  !     She  had  not  the  heart  to  be  stern.     All  she 

O 

said  was,  "  We  will  go  away,  dear ;  we  will  go  away." 

"  No,"  said  Eva,  rising ;  "  let  me  stay  here.  You 
need  not  be  afraid." 

"  Of  course  I  am  not  afraid,"  answered  Fanny, 
gravely.  "  My  daughter  will  never  do  anything  un- 
seemly ;  she  has  too  much  pride." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  no  pride — that  is,  not  as  you 
have  it,  mamma.  Pride  doesn't  seem  to  me  at  all  im- 
portant compared  with —  But  of  course  I  know  that 
there  is  nothing  I  can  do.  He  is  perfectly  indifferent. 
Only  do  not  take  me  away  again — do  not." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  stay  ?" 

"  Because  then  I  can  think — for  three  days  more — 
that  he  is  at  least  as  near  me  as  that."  She  trembled 
as  she  said  this  ;  there  was  a  spot  of  sombre  red  in  each 
cheek;  her  fair  face  looked  strange  amid  her  disordered 
hair. 

Her  mother  watched  her  helplessly.  All  her  beliefs, 
all  her  creed,  all  her  precedents,  the  experience  of  her 
own  life  and  her  own  nature  even,  failed  to  explain  such 
a  phenomenon  as  this.  And  it  was  her  own  child  who 
was  saying  these  things. 

The  next  day  Eva  was  passive.  She  wandered  about 
the  terrace,  or  sat  for  hours  motionless  staring  blankly 
at  the  sea.  Her  mother  left  her  to  herself.  She  had 
comprehended  that  words  were  useless.  She  pretend- 
ed to  be  embroidering,  but  in  reality  as  she  drew  her 
stitches  she  was  counting  the  hours  as  they  passed  : 
seventy-two  hours  ;  forty-eight  hours.  Would  he  ever 
be  gone  ? 

On  the  second  day,  in  the  afternoon,  she  discovered 


"SHE    SAT    DOWN    AND    GATHERED    HKR   CHILD    TO    HER    BREAST1' 


A   PINK   VILLA  129 

that  Eva  had  disappeared.  The  girl  had  been  on  the 
terrace  with  Mademoiselle  ;  Mademoiselle  had  gone  to 
her  room  for  a  moment,  and  when  she  returned  her 
pupil  could  not  be  found.  She  had  not  passed  through 
the  drawing-room,  where  Fanny  was  sitting  with  her 
pretended  industry ;  nor  through  the  other  door,  for 
Rosine  was  at  work  there,  and  had  seen  nothing  of 
her.  There  remained  only  the  rock  stairway  to  the 
beach.  Mademoiselle  ran  down  it  swiftly :  no  one. 
But  there  was  a  small  boat  not  far  off,  she  said.  Fan- 
ny, who  was  near-sighted,  got  the  glass.  In  a  little 
boat  with  a  broad  sail  there  were  two  figures  ;  one  was 
certainly  David  Rod,  and  the  other — yes,  the  other  was 
Eva.  There  was  a  breeze,  the  boat  was  rapidly  going 
westward  round  the  cliffs ;  in  two  minutes  more  it  was 
out  of  sight. 

Fanny  wrung  her  hands.  The  French  woman,  to 
whom  the  event  wore  a  much  darker  hue  than  it  did 
to  the  American  mother,  turned  yellowly  pale. 

At  this  moment  Horace  Bartholomew  came  out  on 
the  terrace  ;  uneasy,  for  Fanny's  missive  had  explained 
nothing,  he  had  followed  his  letter  himself.  "  What 
is  it?"  he  said,  as  he  saw  the  agitation  of  the  two 
women. 

"  Your  friend — yours — the  man  you  brought  here, 
has  Eva  with  him  at  this  moment  out  on  the  bay  !" 
said  Fanny,  vehemently. 

"Well,  what  of  that?  You  must  look  at  it  with 
Punta  Palmas  eyes,  Fanny  ;  at  Punta  Palmas  it  would 
be  an  ordinary  event." 

"  But  my  Eva  is  not  a  Punta  Palmas  girl,  Horace 
Bartholomew  !" 

"  She  is  as  innocent  as  one,  and  I'll  answer  for  Rod. 

9 


130  A.   PIXK    VILLA 

Come,  be  sensible,  Fanny.  They  will  be  back  before 
sunset,  and  no  one  in  Sorrento  —  if  that  is  what  is 
troubling  you  so — need  be  any  the  wiser." 

"  You  do  not  know  all,"  said  Fanny.  "  Oh,  Horace 
— I  must  tell  somebody — she  fancies  she  cares  for  that 
man  !"  She  wrung  her  hands  again.  "  Couldn't  we 
follow  them  ?  Get  a  boat." 

"  It  would  take  an  hour.  And  it  would  be  a  very 
conspicuous  thing  to  do.  Leave  them  alone — it's  much 
better ;  I  tell  you  I'll  answer  for  Rod.  Fancies  she 
cares  for  him,  does  she  ?  Well,  he  is  a  fine  fellow ; 
on  the  whole,  the  finest  I  know." 

The  mother's  eyes  flashed  through  her  tears.  "  This 
from  you  ?" 

"  I  can't  help  it ;  he  is.  Of  course  you  do  not  think 
so.  He  has  got  no  money ;  he  has  never  been  any- 
where that  you  call  anywhere ;  he  doesn't  know  any- 
thing about  the  only  life  you  care  for  nor  the  things 
you  think  important.  All  the  same,  he  is  a  man  in  a 
million.  He  is  a  man — not  a  puppet." 

Gentle  Mrs.  Churchill  appeared  for  the  moment 
transformed.  She  looked  as  though  she  could  strike 
him.  "  Xever  mind  your  Quixotic  ideas.  Tell  me 
whether  he  is  in  love  with  Eva ;  it  all  depends  upon 
that." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  answered  Bartholomew. 
He  began  to  think.  "  I  can't  say  at  all ;  he  would 
conceal  it  from  me." 

"  Because  he  felt  his  inferiority.  I  am  glad  he  has 
that  grace." 

"  He  wouldn't  be  conscious  of  any  inferiority  save 
that  he  is  poor.  It  would  be  that,  probably,  if  any- 
thing ;  of  course  he  supposes  that  Eva  is  rich." 


A    TIXK    VILLA  131 

"  Would  to  Heaven  she  were  !"  said  the  mother. 
"  Added  to  every  other  horror  of  it,  poverty,  miserable 
poverty,  for  my  poor  child  !"  She  sat  down  and  hid 
her  face. 

"  It  may  not  be  as  bad  as  you  fear,  nor  anything  like 
it.  Do  cheer  up  a  little,  Fanny.  When  Eva  comes 
back,  ten  to  one  you  will  find  that  nothing  at  all  has 
happened — that  it  has  been  a  mere  ordinary  excursion. 
And  I  promise  you  I  will  take  Bod  away  with  me  to- 
morrow." 

Mrs.  Churchill  rose  and  began  to  pace  to  and  fro, 
biting  her  lips,  and  watching  the  water.  Mademoi- 
selle, who  was  still  hovering  near,  she  waved  impa- 
tiently away.  "  Let  no  one  in,"  she  called  to  her. 

There  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  nothing  else  to  do,  as 
Bartholomew  had  said,  save  to  wait.  He  sat  down  and 
discussed  the  matter  a  little. 

Fanny  paid  no  attention  to  what  he  was  saying. 
Every  now  and  then  broken  phrases  of  her  own  burst 
from  her  :  "  How  much  good  will  her  perfect  French 
and  Italian,  her  German,  Spanish,  and  even  Russian, 
do  her  down  in  that  barbarous  wilderness  ?" — "  In  her 
life  she  has  never  even  buttoned  her  boots.  Do  they 
think  she  can  make  bread  ?" — "  And  there  was  Gino. 
And  poor  Pierre."  Then,  suddenly,  "  But  it  shall  not 
be!" 

"  I  have  been  wondering  why  you  did  not  take  that 
tone  from  the  first,"  said  Bartholomew.  "  She  is  very 
young.  She  has  been  brought  up  to  obey  you  implic- 
itly. It  would  be  easy  enough,  I  should  fancy,  if  you 
could  once  make  up  your  mind  to  it." 

"  Make  up  my  mind  to  save  her,  you  mean,"  said 
the  mother,  bitterly.  She  did  not  tell  him  that  she 


132  A    PINK    VILLA 

was  afraid  of  her  daughter.  "  Should  you  expect  me 
to  live  at  Punta  Palmas?"  she  demanded,  contempt- 
uously, of  her  companion. 

"  That  would  depend  upon  Rod,  wouldn't  it  ?"  an- 
swered Bartholomew,  rather  unamiably.  He  was  tired 
— he  had  been  there  an  hour — of  being  treated  like  a 
door-mat. 

At  this  Fanny  broke  down  again,  and  completely. 
For  it  was  only  too  true  ;  it  would  depend  upon  that 
stranger,  that  farmer,  that  unknown  David  Rod,  whether 
she,'  the  mother,  should  or  should  not  be  with  her  own 
child. 

A  little  before  sunset  the  boat  came  into  sight  again 
round  the  western  cliffs.  Fanny  dried  her  eyes.  She 
was  very  pale.  Little  Mademoiselle,  rigid  with  anx- 
iety, watched  from  an  upper  window.  Bartholomew 
rose  to  go  down  to  the  beach  to  receive  the  returning 
fugitives.  "  No,"  said  Fanny,  catching  his  arm,  "  don't 
go  ;  no  one  must  know  before  I  do — no  one."  So  they 
waited  in  silence. 

Down  below,  the  little  boat  had  rapidly  approached. 
Eva  had  jumped  out,  and  was  now  running  up  the 
rock  stairway ;  she  was  always  light-footed,  but  to  her 
mother  it  seemed  that  the  ascent  took  an  endless  time. 
At  length  there  was  the  vision  of  a  young,  happy,  rush- 
ing figure — rushing  straight  to  Fanny's  arms.  "  Oh, 
mamma,  mamma,"  the  girl  whispered,  seeing  that  there 
was  no  one  there  but  Bartholomew,  "  he  loves  me  ! 
He  has  told  me  so !  he  has  told  me  so  !" 

For  an  instant  the  mother  drew  herself  away.  Eva, 
left  alone,  and  mindful  of  nothing  but  her  own  bliss, 
looked  so  radiant  with  happiness  that  Bartholomew 
(being  a  man)  could  not  help  sympathizing  with  her. 


A    PINK    VILLA  133 

"  You  will  have  to  give  it  up,"  he  said  to  Fanny,  sig- 
nificantly. Then  he  took  his  hat  and  went  away. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  his  place  was  filled  by  David 
Rod. 

"  Ah  !  you  have  come.  I  must  have  a  few  words  of 
conversation  with  you,  Mr.  Rod,"  said  Fanny,  in  an 
icy  tone.  "  Eva,  leave  us  now." 

"  Oh  no,  mamma,  not  now ;  never  again,  I  hope," 
answered  the  girl.  She  spoke  with  secure  confidence ; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  lover's  face. 

"  Do  you  call  this  honorable  behavior,  Mr.  Rod  ?" 
Fanny  began.  She  saw  that  Eva  would  not  go. 

"  Why,  I  hope  so,"  answered  Rod,  surprised.  "  I 
have  come  at  once,  as  soon  as  I  possibly  could,  Mrs. 
Churchill  (I  had  to  take  the  boat  back  first,  you  know), 
to  tell  you  that  we  are  engaged  ,•  it  isn't  an  hour  old 
yet — is  it,  Eva  ?"  He  looked  at  Eva  smilingly,  his 
eyes  as  happy  as  her  own. 

"  It  is  the  custom  to  ask  permission,"  said  Fanny, 
stiffly. 

"  I  have  never  heard  of  the  custom,  then  ;  that  is  all 
I  can  say,"  answered  Rod,  with  good-natured  tranquil- 
lity, still  looking  at  the  girl's  face,  with  its  rapt  expres- 
sion, its  enchanting  joy. 

"  Please  to  pay  attention  ;  I  decline  to  consent,  Mr. 
Rod  ;  you  cannot  have  my  daughter." 

"  Mamma — "  said  Eva,  coming  up  to  her. 

"  No,  Eva ;  if  you  will  remain  here — which  is  most 
improper — you  will  have  to  hear  it  all.  You  are  so 
much  my  daughter's  inferior,  Mr.  Rod,  that  I  cannot, 
and  I  shall  not,  consent." 

At  the  word  "  inferior,"  a  slight  shock  passed  over 
Eva  from  head  to  foot.  She  went  swiftly  to  her  lover, 


134  A   PINK    VILLA 

knelt  down  and  pressed  her  lips  to  bis  brown  hand,  bid- 
ing her  face  upon  it. 

He  raised  her  tenderly  in  his  arms,  and  thus  em- 
braced, they  stood  there  together,  confronting  the 
mother — confronting  the  world. 

Fanny  put  out  her  hands  with  a  bitter  cry.     "  Eva  !" 

The  girl  ran  to  her,  clung  to  her.  "  Oh,  mamma, 
I  love  you  dearly.  But  you  must  not  try  to  sepa- 
rate me  from  David.  I  could  not  leave  him — I  never 
will." 

"  Let  us  go  in,  to  our  own  room,"  said  the  mother,  in 
a  broken  voice. 

"Yes;  but  speak  to  David  first,  mamma." 

Rod  came  forward  and  offered  his  arm.  He  was  sor- 
ry for  the  mother's  grief,  which,  however,  in  such  in- 
tensity as  this,  he  could  not  at  all  understand.  But 
though  he  was  sorry,  he  was  resolute,  he  was  even 
stern  j  in  his  dark  beauty,  his  height  and  strength, 
he  looked  indeed,  as  Bartholomew  had  said,  a  man. 

At  the  sight  of  his  offered  arm  Mrs.  Churchill  re- 
coiled -,  she  glanced  all  round  the  terrace  as  though  to 
get  away  from  it  -,  she  even  glanced  at  the  water  ;  it  al- 
most seemed  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  take  her 
child  and  plunge  with  her  to  the  depths  below.  But 
one  miserable  look  at  Eva's  happy,  trustful  eyes  still 
watching  her  lover's  face  cowed  her ;  she  took  the  of- 
fered arm.  And  then  Rod  went  with  her,  supporting 
her  gently  into  the  house,  and  through  it  to  her  own 
room,  where  he  left  her  with  her  daughter.  That  night 
the  mother  rose  from  her  sleepless  couch,  lit  a  shaded 
taper,  and  leaving  it  on  a  distant  table,  stole  softly  to 
Eva's  side.  The  girl  was  in  a  deep  slumber,  her  head 
pillowed  on  her  arm.  Fanny,  swallowing  her  tears, 


"FANNY  PCT  OUT  HER  HANDS  WITH  A  BITTER  CRY" 


A    PINK    VILLA  135 

gazed  at  her  sleeping  child.  She  still  saw  in  the  face 
the  baby  outlines  of  years  before,  her  mother's  eye 
could  still  distinguish  in  the  motionless  hand  the  dim- 
pled fingers  of  the  child.  The  fair  hair,  lying  on  the 
pillow,  recalled  to  her  the  short  flossy  curls  of  the  little 
girl  who  had  clung  to  her  skirts,  who  had  had  but  one 
thought — "  mamma." 

"  What  will  her  life  be  now  ?  What  must  she  go 
through,  perhaps  —  what  pain,  privation  —  my  darling, 
my  own  little  child  !" 

The  wedding  was  to  take  place  within  the  month  ; 
Rod  said  that  he  could  not  be  absent  longer  from  his 
farm.  Fanny,  breaking  her  silence,  suggested  to  Bar- 
tholomew that  the  farm  might  be  given  up ;  there  were 
other  occupations. 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  say  a  word  of  that  sort  to  Rod," 
Bartholomew  answered.  "  His  whole  heart  is  in  that 
farm,  that  colony  he  has  built  up  down  there.  You 
must  remember  that  he  was  brought  up  there  himself, 
or  rather  came  up.  It's  all  he  knows,  and  he  thinks  it 
the  most  important  thing  in  life ;  I  was  going  to  say 
it's  all  he  cares  for,  but  of  course  now  he  has  added 
Eva." 

Pierre  came  once.     He  saw  only  the  mother. 

When  he  left  her  he  went  round  by  way  of  the 
main  street  of  Sorrento  in  order  to  pass  a  certain  ^small 
inn.  His  carriage  was  waiting  to  take  him  back  to  Cas- 
tellamare,  but  there  was  some  one  he  wished  to  look  at 
first.  It  was  after  dark ;  he  could  see  into  the  lighted 
house  through  the  low  uncurtained  windows,  and  he 
soon  came  upon  the  tall  outline  of  the  young  farmer 
seated  at  a  table,  his  eyes  bent  upon  a  column  of  fig- 
ures. The  Belgian  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot 


136  .  A   PINK   VILLA 

slowly.  He  stood  there  gazing  for  five  minutes.  Then 
he  turned  away.  "  That,  for  Americans  !"  he  mur- 
mured in  French,  snapping  his  fingers  in  the  dark- 
ness. But  there  was  a  mist  in  his  boyish  eyes  all  the 
same. 

The  pink  villa  witnessed  the  wedding.  Fanny  never 
knew  how  she  got  through  that  day.  She  was  calm ; 
she  did  not  once  lose  her  self-control. 

They  were  to  sail  directly  for  New  York  from  Naples, 
and  thence  to  Florida ;  the  Italian  colonists  were  to  go 
at  the  same  time. 

"  Mamma  comes  next  year,"  Eva  said  to  everybody. 
She  looked  indescribably  beautiful ;  it  was  the  radiance 
of  a  complete  happiness,  like  a  halo. 

By  three  o'clock  they  were  gone,  they  were  crossing 
the  bay  in  the  little  Naples  steamer.  No  one  was  left 
at  the  villa  with  Fanny — it  was  her  own  arrangement — 
save  Horace  Bartholomew. 

"  She  won't  mind  being  poor,"  he  said,  consolingly, 
"she  won't  mind  anything — with  him.  It  is  one  of  those 
sudden,  overwhelming  loves  that  one  sometimes  sees ; 
and  after  all,  Fanny,  it  is  the  sweetest  thing  life  of- 
fers." 

"  And  the  mother  ?"  said  Fanny. 


THE  STREET   OF  THE   HYACINTH 


IT  was  a  street  in  Rome — narrow,  winding,  not  over- 
clean.  Two  vehicles  meeting  there  could  pass  only  by 
grazing  the  doors  and  windows  on  either  side,  after  the 
usual  excited  whip-cracking  and  shouts  which  make  the 
new-comer  imagine,  for  his  first  day  or  two,  that  he  is 
proceeding  at  a  perilous  speed  through  the  sacred  city 
of*  the  soul. 

But  two  vehicles  did  not  often  meet  in  the  street  of 
the  Hyacinth.  It  was  not  a  thoroughfare,  not  even  a 
convenient  connecting  link ;  it  skirted  the  back  of  the 
Pantheon,  the  old  buildings  on  either  side  rising  so 
high  against  the  blue  that  the  sun  never  came  down 
lower  than  the  fifth  line  of  windows,  and  looking  up 
from  the  pavement  was  like  looking  up  fr'om  the  bottom 
of  a  well.  There  was  no  foot-walk,  of  course ;  even  if 
there  had  been  one  no  one  would  have  used  it,  owing 
to  the  easy  custom  of  throwing  from  the  windows  a 
few  ashes  and  other  light  trifles  for  the  city  refuse- 
carts,  instead  of  carrying  them  down  the  long  stairs  to 
the  door  below.  They  must  be  in  the  street  at  an  ap- 
pointed hour,  must  they  not?  Very  well,  then — there 
they  were  ;  no  one  but  an  unreasonable  foreigner  would 
dream  of  objecting. 


138  THE    STKEET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

But  unreasonable  foreigners  seldom  entered  the  street 
of  the  Hyacinth.  There  were,  however,  two  who  lived 
there  one  winter  not  long  ago,  and  upon  a  certain 
morning  in  the  January  of  that  winter  a  third  came  to 
see  these  two.  At  least  he  asked  for  them,  and  gave 
two  cards  to  the  Italian  maid  who  answered  his  ring ; 
but  when,  before  he  had  time  to  even  seat  himself,  the 
little  curtain  over  the  parlor  door  was  raised  again,  and 
Miss  Macks  entered,  she  came  alone.  Her  mother  did 
not  appear.  The  visitor  wras  not  disturbed  by  being 
obliged  to  begin  conversation  immediately ;  he  was  an 
old  Roman  sojourner,  and  had  stopped  fully  three 
minutes  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  flight  of  stairs  to  re- 
gain his  breath  before  he  mounted  the  fifth  and  last  to 
ring  Miss  Macks's  bell.  Her  card  was  tacked  upon  the 
door :  "  Miss  Ettie  F.  Macks."  He  surveyed  it  with 
disfavor,  while  the  little,  loose-hung  bell  rang  a  small 
but  exceedingly  shrill  and  ill-tempered  peal,  like  the 
barking  of  a  small  cur.  "  Why  in  the  world  doesn't 
she  put  her  mother's  card  here  instead  of  her  own  ?" 
he  said  to  himself.  "  Or,  if  her  own,  why  not  simply 
'  Miss  Macks,'  without  that  nickname  ?" 

But  Miss  Macks's  mother  had  never  possessed  a  visit- 
ing-card in  her  life.  Miss  Macks  was  the  visiting  mem- 
ber of  the  family ;  and  this  was  so  well  understood  at 
home,  that  she  had  forgotten  that  it  might  not  be  the 
same  abroad.  As  to  the  "Ettie,"  having  been  called  so 
always,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  to  make  a  change. 
Her  name  was  Ethelinda  Faith,  Mrs.  Macks  having  thus 
combined  euphony  and  filial  respect — the  first  title 
being  her  tribute  to  aesthetics,  the  second  her  tribute 
to  the  memory  of  her  mother. 

"  I  am  so  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Noel,"  said  Miss 


THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  139 

Macks,  greeting  her  visitor  with  much  cordial  direct- 
ness of  voice  and  eyes.  "  I  liave  been  expecting  you. 
But  you  have  waited  so  long — three  days  !" 

Raymond  Noel,  who  thought  that  under  the  circum- 
stances he  had  been  unusually  courteous  and  prompt, 
was  rather  surprised  to  find  himself  thus  put  at  once 
upon  the  defensive. 

"  We  are  not  always  able  to  carry  out  our  wishes 
immediately,  Miss  Macks,"  he  replied,  smiling  a  little. 
"  I  was  hampered  by  several  previously  made  engage- 
ments." 

"Yes  ;  but  this  was  a  little  different,  wasn't  it?  This 
was  something  important  —  not  like  an  invitation  to 
lunch  or  dinner,  or  the  usual  idle  society  talk." 

He  looked  at  her ;  she  was  quite  in  earnest. 

"  I  suppose  it  to  be  different,"  he  answered.  "  You 
must  remember  how  little  you  have  told  me." 

"  I  thought  I  told  you  a  good  deal !  However,  the 
atmosphere  of  a  reception  is  no  place  for  such  subjects, 
and  I  can  understand  that  you  did  not  take  it  in.  That 
is  the  reason  I  asked  you  to  come  and  see  me  here. 
Shall  I  begin  at  once  ?  It  seems  rather  abrupt." 

"I  enjoy  abruptness;  I  have  not  heard  any  for  a 
long  time." 

"  That  I  can  understand,  too ;  I  suppose  the  society 
here  is  all  finished  -off — there  are  no  rough  ends." 

"  There  are  ends.  If  not  rough,  they  arc  often 
sharp." 

But  Miss  Macks  did  not  stop  to  analyze  this ;  she 
was  too  much  occupied  with  her  own  subject. 

"  I  will  begin  immediately,  then,"  she  said.  "  It  will 
be  rather  long ;  but  if  you  are  to  understand  me  you 
ought,  of  course,  to  know  the  whole." 


140  THE    STKEET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

"  My  chair  is  very  comfortable,"  replied  Noel,  plac- 
ing his  hat  and  gloves  on  the  sofa  near  him,  and  tak- 
ing an  easy  position  with  his  head  back. 

Miss  Macks  thought  that  he  onght  to  have  said,  "  The 
longer  it  is,  the  more  interesting,"  or  something  of  that 
sort.  She  had  already  described  him  to  her  mother  as 
"  not  over-polite.  Not  rude  in  the  least,  you  know — as 
far  as  possible  from  that;  wonderfully  smooth-spoken; 
but  yet,  somehow — awfully  indifferent."  However,  he 
was  Raymond  Noel ;  and  that,  not  his  politeness  or  im- 
politeness, was  her  point. 

"  To  begin  with,  then,  Mr.  Noel,  a  year  ago  I  had  nev- 
er read  one  word  you  have  written  ;  I  had  never  even 
heard  of  you.  I  suppose  you  think  it  strange  that  I 
should  tell  you  this  so  frankly ;  but,  in  the  first  place, 
it  will  give  you  a  better  idea  of  my  point  of  view ;  and, 
in  the  second,  I  feel  a  friendly  interest  in  your  taking 
measures  to  introduce  your  writings  into  the  communi- 
ty where  I  lived.  It  is  a  very  intelligent  community. 
Naturally,  a  writer  wants  his  articles  read.  AY  hat  else 
does  he  write  them  for  ?" 

"Perhaps  a  little  for  his  own  entertainment,"  sug- 
gested her  listener. 

"  Oh  no  !  He  would  never  take  so  much  trouble  just 
for  that." 

"  On  the  contrary,  many  would  take  any  amount  just 
for  that.  Successfully  to  entertain  one's  self — that  is 
one  of  the  great  successes  of  life." 

Miss  Macks  gazed  at  him ;  she  had  a  very  direct 
gaze. 

"  This  is  just  mere  talk,"  she  said,  not  impatiently, 
but  in  a  business-like  tone.  "  We  shall  never  get  any- 
where if  you  take  me  up  so.  It  is  not  that  your  re- 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  141 

marks  are  not  very  cultivated  and  interesting,  and  all 
that,  but  simply  that  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  be  cultivated  and  interesting  dumbly. 
I  will  try." 

"  You  are  afraid  I  am  going  to  be  diffuse  ;  I  see  that. 
So  many  women  are  diffuse  !  But  I  shall  not  be,  be- 
cause,! have  been  thinking  for  six  months  just  what  I 
should  say  to  you.  It  was  very  lucky  that  I  went  with 
Mrs.  Lawrence  to  that  reception  where  I  met  you. 
But  if  it  had  not  happened  as  it  did  I  should  have 
found  you  out  all  the  same.  I  should  have  looked  for 
your  address  at  all  the  bankers',  and  if  it  was  not  there 
I  should  have  inquired  at  all  the  hotels.  But  it  was 
delightful  luck  getting  hold  of  you  in  this  way  almost 
the  very  minute  I  enter  Rome  !" 

She  spoke  so  simply  and  earnestly  that  Noel  did  not 
say  that  he  was  immensely  honored,  and  so  forth,  but 
merely  bowed  his  acknowledgments. 

"  To  go  back.  I  shall  give  you  simply  heads," 
pursued  Miss  Macks.  "  If  you  want  details,  ask,  and 
I  will  fill  them  in.  I  come  from  the  West.  Tuscolee 
Falls  is  the  name  of  our  town.  We  had  a  farm  there, 
but  we  did  not  do  well  with  it  after  Mr.  Spurr's  death, 
so  we  rented  it  out.  That  is  how  I  come  to  have  so 
much  leisure.  I  have  always  had  a  great  deal  of  ambition; 
by  that  I  mean  that  I  did  not  see  why  things  that  had 
once  been  done  could  not  be  done  again.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  point  was — just  determination.  And  then, 
of  course,  I  always  had  the  talent.  I  made  pictures 
when  I  was  a  very  little  girl.  Mother  has  them  still, 
and  I  can  show  them  to  you.  It  is  just  like  all  the 
biographies,  you  know.  They  always  begin  in  child- 
hood, and  astonish  the  family.  Well,  I  had  my  first 


142  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

lessons  from  a  drawing-teacher  who  spent  a  summer 
in  Tuscolee.  I  can  show  you  what  I  did  while  with 
him.  Then  I  attended,  for  four  years,  the  Young 
Ladies'  Seminary  in  the  county-town,  and  took  lessons 
while  there.  I  may  as  well  be  perfectly  frank  and  tell 
the  whole,  which  is  that  everybody  was  astonished  at 
my  progress,  and  that  I  was  myself.  All  sorts  of  things 
are  prophesied  out  there  about  my  future.  You  see, 
the  neighborhood  is  a  very  generous-spirited  one,  and 
they  like  to  think  they  have  discovered  a  genius  at 
their  own  doors.  My  telling  you  all  this  sounds,  I 
know,  rather  conceited,  Mr.  Noel.  But  if  you  could 
see  my  motive,  and  how  entirely  without  conceit  my 
idea  of  myself  really  is,  you  would  hold  me  free  from 
that  charge.  It  is  only  that  I  want  you  to  know  abso- 
lutely the  whole." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  answered  her  visitor. 

"  "Well,  I  hope  you  do.  I  went  on  at  home  after 
that  by  myself,  and  I  did  a  good  deal.  I  work  pretty 
rapidly,  you  see.  Then  came  my  last  lessens,  from  a 
third  teacher.  He  was  a  young  man  from  New  York. 
He  had  consumption,  poor  fellow !  and  cannot  last 
long.  He  wasn't  of  much  use  to  me  in  actual  work. 
His  ideas  were  completely  different  from  those  of  my 
other  teachers,  and,  indeed,  from  my  own.  He  was 
unreliable,  too,  and  his  temper  was  uneven.  How- 
ever, I  had  a  good  deal  of  respect  for  his  opinion,  and 
he  told  me  to  get  your  art-articles  and  read  them.  It 
wasn't  easy.  Some  of  them  are  scattered  about  in  the 
magazines  and  papers,  you  know.  However,  I  am 
pretty  determined,  and  I  kept  at  it  until  I  got  them  all. 
Well,  they  made  a  great  impression  upon  me.  You 
see,  they  were  new."  She  paused.  "But  I  doubt, 


THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  143 

Mr.  Noel,  whether  we  should  ever  entirely  agree,"  she 
added,  looking  at  him  reflectively. 

"  That  is  very  probable,  Miss  Macks." 

Miss  Macks  thought  this  an  odd  reply.  "He  is 
so  queer,  with  all  his  smoothness !"  she  said  to  her 
mother  afterwards.  "  He  never  says  what  you  think 
he  will  say.  Now,  any  one  would  suppose  that  he 
would  have  answered  that  he  would  try  to  make  me 
agree,  or  something  like  that.  Instead,  he  just  gave  it 
right  up  without  trying !  J3ut  I  expect  he  sees  how 
independent  I  am,  and  that  I  don't  intend  to  reflect 
any  one. 

"  Well,  they  made  a  great  impression,"  she  resumed. 
"  And  as  you  seemed  to  think,  Mr.  Noel,  that  no  one 
could  do  well  in  painting  who  had  not  seen  and  studied 
the  old  pictures  over  here,  I  made  up  iny  mind  to  come 
over  at  any  cost,  if  it  was  a  possible  thing  to  bring  it 
about.  It  wasn't  easy,  but — here  we  are.  In  the  lives  of 
all — almost  all — artists,  I  have  noticed — haven't  you? 
— that  there  comes  a  time  when  they  have  to  live  on  hope 
and  their  own  pluck  more  than  upon  anything  tangible 
that  the  present  has  to  offer.  They  have  to  take  that 
risk.  Well,  I  have  taken  it ;  I  took  it  when  we  left 
America.  And  now  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is  I  want 
from  you.  I  haven't  any  hesitation  in  asking,  because 
I  am  sure  you  will  feel  interested  in  a  case  like  mine, 
and  because  it  was  your  writings  really  that  brought 
me  here,  you  know.  And  so,  then,  first :  I  would  like 
your  opinion  of  all  that  I  have  done  so  far.  I  have 
brought  everything  with  me  to  show  you.  Second: 
I  want  your  advice  as  to  the  best  teacher ;  I  suppose 
there  is  a  great  choice  in  Rome.  Third :  I  should  be 
glad  if  you  would  give  a  general  oversight  to  all  I  do 


144  THE    STREET    OP   THE    HYACINTH 

for  the  next  year.  And  last,  if  you  would  be  so  kind, 
I  should  much  enjoy  making  visits  with  you  to  all  the 
galleries  and  hearing  your  opinions  again  by  word  of 
mouth,  because  that  is  always  so  much  more  vivid,  you 
know,  than  the  printed  page." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Macks  !  you  altogether  over-estimate 
my  powers,"  said  Noel,  astounded  by  these  far-reach- 
ing demands,  so  calmly  and  confidently  made. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Of  course  it  strikes  you  so — strikes 
you  as  a  great  compliment  that  I  should  wish  to  put  my- 
self so  entirely  in  your  hands,"  answered  Miss  Macks, 
smiling.  "  But  you  must  give  up  thinking  of  me  as 
the  usual  young  lady ;  you  must  not  think  of  me  in 
that  way  any  more  than  I  shall  think  of  you  as  the 
usual  young  gentleman.  You  will  never  meet  me  at 
a  reception  again ;  now  that  I  have  found  you,  I  shall 
devote  myself  entirely  to  my  work." 

"  An  alarming  girl !"  said  Noel  to  himself.  But, 
even  as  he  said  it,  he  knew  that,  in  the  ordinary  ac- 
ceptation of  the  term  at  least,  Miss  Macks  was  not  alarm- 
ing. 

She  was  twenty-two;  in  some  respects  she  looked 
older,  in  others  much  younger,  than  most  girls  of  that 
age.  She  was  tall,  slender,  erect,  but  not  especially 
graceful.  Her  hands  were  small  and  finely  shaped, 
but  thin.  Her  features  were  well  cut ;  her  face  oval. 
Her  gray  eyes  had  a  clear  directness  in  their  glance, 
which,  combined  with  the  other  expressions  of  her  face, 
told  the  experienced  observer  at  once  that  she  knew 
little  of  what  is  called  "  the  world."  For,  although 
calm,  it  was  a  deeply  confident  glance  ;  it  showed  that 
the  girl  was  sure  that  she  could  take  care  of  herself, 
and  even  several  others  also,  through  any  contingencies 


TIJE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  145 

that  might  arise.  She  had  little  color  ;  but  her  smooth 
complexion  was  not  pale — it  was  slightly  brown.  Her 
mouth  was  small,  her  teeth  small  and  very  white. 
Iler  light-brown  hair  was  drawn  back  smoothly  from 
her  forehead,  and  drawn  up  smoothly  beliind,  its  thick- 
ness braided  in  a  close  knot  on  the  top  of  her  head. 
This  compact  coiffure,  at  a  time  when  most  feminine 
foreheads  in  Rome  and  elsewhere  were  shaded  almost 
to  the  eyebrows  by  curling  locks,  and  when  the  arched 
outline  of  the  head  was  left  unbroken,  the  hair  being 
coiled  in  a  low  knot  behind,  made  Miss  Macks  look 
somewhat  peculiar.  But  she  was  not  observant  of 
fashion's  changes.  That  had  been  the  mode  in  Tusco- 
lee  ;  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  it ;  and,  as  her  mind 
was  full  of  other  things,  she  had  not  considered  this 
one.  One  or  two  persons,  who  noticed  her  on  the 
voyage  over,  said  to  themselves,  "  If  that  girl  had 
more  color,  and  if  she  was  graceful,  and  if  she  was  a 
little  more  womanly — that  is,  if  she  would  not  look  at 
everything  in  such  a  direct,  calm,  impartial,  impersonal 
sort  of  way — she  would  be  almost  pretty." 

But  Miss  Macks  continued  without  color  and  without 
grace,  and  went  on  looking  at  things  as  impersonally 
and  impartially  as  ever. 

'•  I  shall  be  most  happy,  of  course,  to  do  anything 
that  I  can,"  Noel  had  answered.  Then  to  make  a  di- 
version, "  Shall  I  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs. 
Macks  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Macks  ?  Oh,  you  mean  mother.  My  mother's 
name  is  Spurr  —  Mrs.  Spurr.  My  father  died  when  I 
was  a  baby,  and  some  years  afterwards  she  married 
Mr.  Spurr.  She  is  now  again  a  widow.  Her  health  is 

not  good,  and  she  sees  almost  no  one,  thank  you." 
10 


146  THE    STREET    OP   THE    HYACINTH 

"  I  suppose  you  are  much  pleased  with  the  pictu- 
resqueness  of  Roman  life,  and — ah — your  apartment?" 
he  went  on. 

"  Pleased  ?"  said  Miss  Macks,  looking  at  him  in 
•wonder.  "  With  our  apartment  ?  We  get  along  with 
it  because  we  must;  there  seems  to  be  no  other  way  to 
live  in  Rome.  The  idea  of  having  only  a  story  of  a 
house,  and  not  a  whole  house  to  ourselves,  is  dreadful 
to  mother;  she  cannot  get  used  to  it.  And  with  so 
many  families  below  us — we  have  a  clock-mender,  a 
dress-maker,  an  engraver,  a  print-seller,  and  a  cobbler 
— and  only  one  pair  of  stairs,  it  does  seem  to  me  dread- 
fully public." 

"  You  must  look  upon  the  .stairway  as  a  street,"  said 
Noel.  "You  have  established  yourselves  in  a  very- 
short  time." 

"  Oh  yes.  I  got  an  agent,  and  looked  at  thirty 
places  the  very  first  day.  I  speak  Italian  a  little,  so  I 
can  manage  the  house-keeping ;  I  began  to  study  it  as 
soon  as  we  thought  of  coming,  and  I  studied  hard.  But 
all  this  is  of  secondary  importance ;  the  real  thing  is  to 
get  to  work.  Will  you  look  at  my  paintings  now  ?" 
she  said,  rising  as  if  to  go  for  them. 

"  Thanks ;  I  fear  I  have  hardly  time  to-day,"  said 
Noel.  He  was  thinking  whether  it  would  be  better  to 
decline  clearly  and  in  so  many  words  the  office  she  had 
thrust  upon  him,  or  trust  to  time  to  effect  the  same 
without  an  open  refusal.  He  decided  upon  the  latter 
course ;  it  seemed  the  easier,  and  also  the  kinder  to 
her. 

"  Well,  another  day,  then,"  said  Miss  Macks,  cheer- 
fully, taking  her  seat  again.  "  But  about  a  teacher  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know — " 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  147 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Noel !  you  must  know." 

And,  in  truth,  he  did  know.  It  came  into  his  mind 
to  give  her  the  name  of  a  good  teacher,  and  then  put 
all  further  responsibilities  upon  him. 

Miss  Macks  wrote  down  the  name  in  a  clear,  orna- 
mental handwriting. 

"  I  am  glad  it  isn't  a  foreigner,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
believe  I  should  get  on  with  a  foreigner." 

"  But  it  is  a  foreigner." 

"  Why,  it's  an  English  name,  isn't  it  ? — Jackson." 

"  Yes,  he  is  an  Englishman.  But  isn't  an  English- 
man a  foreigner  in  Rome  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  take  that  view  ?  Now,  to  me,  America 
and — well,  yes,  perhaps  England,  too,  are  the  nations. 
Everything  else  is  foreign." 

"  The  English  would  be  very  much  obliged  to  you," 
said  Noel,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  am  more  liberal  than  most  Ameri- 
cans; I  really  like  the  English,"  said  Miss  Macks, 
calmly.  "  But  we  keep  getting  off  the  track.  Let  me 
see —  Oh  yes.  As  I  shall  go  to  see  this  Mr.  Jackson 
this  afternoon,  and  as  it  is  not  likely  that  he  will  be 
ready  to  begin  to-morrow,  will  you  come  then  and  look 
at  my  pictures  ?  Or  would  you  rather  commence  with 
a  visit  to  one  of  the  galleries  ?" 

Raymond  Noel  was  beginning  to  be  amused.  If  she 
had  shown  the  faintest  indication  of  knowing  how  much 
she  was  asking,  if  she  had  betrayed  the  smallest  sign 
of  a  desire  to  secure  his  attention  as  Raymond  Noel 
personally,  and  not  simply  the  art  authority  upon  whom 
she  had  pinned  her  faith,  his  disrelish  for  various 
other  things  about  her  would  have  been  heightened 
into  utter  dislike,  and  it  is  probable  that  he  would 


148  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

never  have  entered  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth  again. 
But  she  was  so  unaware  of  any  intrusion,  or  any  exor- 
bitance in  her  demands,  probably  so  ignorant  of — cer- 
tainly so  indifferent  to — the  degree  of  perfection  (per- 
fection of  the  most  quiet  kind,  however)  visible  in  the 
general  appearance  and  manner  of  the  gentleman  before 
her,  that  (he  said  to  himself)  he  might  as  well  have 
been  one  of  her  own  Tuscolee  farmers,  for  all  she  knew 
to  the  contrary.  The  whole  affair  was  unusual;  and 
Noel  rather  liked  the  unusual,  if  it  was  not  loud — and 
Miss  Macks  was,  at  least,  not  loud;  she  was  dressed 
plainly  in  black,  and  she  had  the  gift  of  a  sweet  voice, 
which,  although  very  clear,  was  low-toned.  Noel  was 
an  observer  of  voices,  and  he  had  noticed  hers  the  first 
time  he  heard  her  speak.  While  these  thoughts  were 
passing  through  his  mind,  he  was  answering  that  he 
feared  his  engagements  for  the  next  day  would,  unfort- 
unately, keep  him  from  putting  himself  at  her  service. 

Her  face  fell ;  she  looked  much  disappointed. 

"  Is  it  going  to  be  like  this  all  the  time  ?"  she  asked, 
anxiously.  "  Are  you  always  engaged  ?" 

"  In  Rome,  in  the  winter,  one  generally  has  small 
leisure.  It  will  be  the  same  with  you,  Miss  Macks, 
when  you  have  been  here  a  while  longer;  you  will  see. 
As  to  the  galleries,  Mr.  Jackson  has  a  class,  I  think, 
and  probably  the  pupils  will  visit  them  all  under  his 
charge ;  you  will  find  that  very  satisfactory." 

"  But  I  don't  want  Mr.  Jackson  for  the  galleries ;  I 
want  you"  said  Miss  Macks.  "  I  have  studied  your 
art  criticisms  until  I  know  them  by  heart,  and  I  have  a 
thousand  questions  to  ask  about  every  picture  you  have 
mentioned.  Why,  Mr.  Noel,  I  came  to  Europe  to  see 
you !" 


THE    STREET   OP   THE    HYACINTH  149 

Raymond  Noel  was  rather  at  a  loss  what  to  answer 
to  this  statement,  made  by  a  girl  who  looked  at  him  so 
soberly  and  earnestly  with  clear  gray  eyes.  It  would 
be  of  no  avail  again  to  assure  her  that  his  opinions 
would  be  of  small  use  to  her ;  as  she  had  said  herself, 
she  was  very  determined,  and  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  they  would  be  of  great  use  instead  of  small. 
Her  idea  must  wear  itself  out  by  degrees.  He  would 
try  to  make  the  degrees  easy.  He  decided  that  he 
would  have  a  little  private  talk  with  Jackson,  who  was 
a  very  honest  fellow  ;  and,  for  the  present,  he  would 
simply  take  leave. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  he  said,  rising.  "I  appreciate 
it,  I  assure  you.  It  has  made  me  stay  an  unconscion- 
able time.  I  hope  you  will  find  Rome  all  you  expected, 
and  I  am  sure  you  will ;  all  people  of  imagination  like 
Rome.  As  to  the  galleries,  yes,  certainly ;  a — ah — 
little  later.  You  must  not  forget  the  various  small 
precautions  necessary  here  as  regards  the  fever,  you 
know." 

"  Rome  will  not  be  at  all  what  I  expected  if  you  de- 
sert me,"  answered  Miss  Macks,  paying  no  attention  to 
his  other  phrases.  She  had  risen,  also,  and  was  now 
confronting  him  at  a  distance  of  less  than  two  feet;  as 
she  was  tall,  her  eyes  were  not  much  below  the  level  of 
his  own. 

"  How  can  a  man  desert  when  he  has  never  enlisted  ?" 
thought  Noel,  humorously.  But  he  kept  his  thought 
to  himself,  and  merely  replied,  as  he  took  his  hat: 
"  Probably  you  will  desert  me ;  you  will  find  out  how 
useless  I  am.  You  must  not  be  too  hard  upon  us,  Miss 
Macks ;  we  Americans  lose  much  of  our  native  energy 
if  we  stay  long  over  here." 


150 

"  Hard  ?"  she  answered — "  hard  ?  Why,  Mr.  Noel, 
I  am  absolutely  at  your  feet !" 

He  looked  at  her,  slightly  startled,  although  his  face 
showed  nothing  of  it;  was  she,  after  all,  going  to — 
But  no ;  her  sentence  had  been  as  impersonal  as  those 
which  had  preceded  it. 

"All  I  said  about  having  contrary  opinions,  and  all 
that,  amounts  to  nothing,"  she  went  on,  thereby  reliev- 
ing him  from  the  necessity  of  making  reply.  "  I  desire 
but  one  thing,  and  that  is  to  have  you  guide  me.  And 
I  don't  believe  you  are  really  going  to  refuse.  You 
haven't  an  unkind  face,  although  you  have  got  such  a 
cold  way  !  Why,  think  of  it :  here  I  have  come  all 
this  long  distance,  bringing  mother,  too,  just  to  study, 
and  to  see  you.  I  shall  study  hard  ;  I  have  a  good  deal 
of  perseverance.  It  took  a  good  deal  to  get  here  in  the 
first  place,  for  we  are  poor.  But  I  don't  mind  that  at 
all ;  the  only  thing  I  should  mind,  the  only  thing  that 
would  take  my  courage  away,  would  be  to  have  you 
desert  me.  In  all  the  troubles  that  I  thought  might 
happen,  I  assure  you,  I  never  once  thought  of  that,  Mr. 
Noel.  I  thought,  of  course,  you  would  be  interested. 
Why,  in  your  books  you  are  all  interest.  Are  you  dif- 
ferent from  your  books  ?" 

"I  fear,  Miss  Macks,  that  writers  are  seldom  good 
illustrations  of  their  own  doctrines,"  replied  Noel. 

"  That  would  make  them  hypocrites.  I  don't  believe 
you  are  a  hypocrite.  I  expect  you  have  a  habit  of  run- 
ning yourself  down.  Many  gentlemen  do  that,  and 
then  they  think  they  will  be  cried  up.  I  don't  believe 
you  are  going  to  be  unkind ;  you  will  look  at  the  pict- 
ures I  have  brought  with  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Mr.  Jackson's  opinion  is  worth  a  hundred  of  mine, 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  151 

Miss  Macks ;  my  knowledge  is  not  technical.  But,  of 
course,  if  you  wish  it,  I  shall  take  pleasure  in  obeying." 
He  added  several  conventional  remarks  as  filling-up, 
and  then,  leaving  his  compliments  for  "your  mother" 
— he  could  not  recall  the  name  she  had  given — he  went 
towards  the  little  curtained  door. 

She  had  brightened  over  his  promise. 

"You  will  come  Monday,  then,  to  see  them,  won't 
you  ? — as  you  cannot  come  to-morrow,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing happily. 

When  she  smiled  (and  she  did  not  smile  often),  show- 
ing her  little  white,  child-like  teeth,  she  looked  very 
young.  He  was  fairly  caught,  and  answered,  "  Yes." 
But  he  immediately  qualified  it  with  a  "  That  is,  if  it  is 
possible." 

"  Oh,  make  it  possible,"  she  answered,  still  smiling 
and  going  with  him  herself  to  the  outer  door  instead 
of  summoning  the  maid.  The  last  he  saw  of  her  she 
was  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  her  face  bright  and 
contented,  watching  him  as  he  went  down.  He  did 
not  go  to  see  her  pictures  on  the  following  Monday ;  he 
sent  a  note  of  excuse. 

Some  days  later  he  met  her. 

"  Ah,  you  are  taking  one  of  the  delightful  walks  ?" 
he  said.  "  I  envy  you  your  first  impressions  of  Rome." 

"  I  am  not  taking  a  walk — that  is,  for  pleasure,"  she 
answered.  "  I  am  trying  to  find  some  vegetables  that 
mother  can  eat ;  the  vegetables  here  are  so  foreign  ! 
You  don't  know  how  disappointed  I  was,  Mr.  Noel, 
when  I  got  your  note.  It  was  such  a  setback !  Why 
couldn't  you  come  right  home  with  me  now — that  is, 
after  I  have  got  the  vegetables — and  see  the  pictures  ? 
It  wouldn't  take  you  fifteen  minutes." 


152  THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

It  was  only  nine  o'clock,  and  a  beautiful  morning. 
He  thought  her  such  a  novelty,  with  her  urgent  invita- 
tions, her  earnest  eyes,  and  her  basket  on  her  arm,  that 
he  felt  the  impulse  to  walk  beside  her  a  while  through 
the  old  streets  of  Rome  ;  he  was  very  fond  of  the  old 
streets,  and  was  curious  to  see  whether  she  would  notice 
the  colors  and  outlines  that  made  their  picturesqueness. 
She  noticed  nothing  but  the  vegetable-stalls,  and  talked 
of  nothing  but  her  pictures. 

He  still  went  on  with  her,  however,  amused  by  the 
questions  she  put  to  the  vegetable-dealers  (questions 
compiled  from  the  phrase  -  books),  and  the  calm  con- 
tempt with  which  she  surveyed  the  Roman  artichokes 
they  offered.  At  last  she  secured  some  beans,  but  of 
sadly  Italian  aspect,  and  Xoel  took  the  basket.  He  was 
much  entertained  by  the  prospect  of  carrying  it  home. 
He  remarked  to  himself  that  of  all  the  various  things 
he  had  done  in  Rome  this  was  the  freshest.  They 
reached  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth  and  walked  down  its 
dark  centre. 

"  I  see  you  have  the  sun,"  he  said,  looking  up. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  the  reason  we  took  the  top  floor.  We 
will  go  right  up.  Everything  is  ready." 

He  excused  himself. 

"  Some  other  time." 

They  had  entered  the  dusky  hallway.  She  looked  at 
him  without  replying ;  then  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
basket.  He  gave  it  to  her. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  seen  Mr.  Jackson  ?"  he  said,  be- 
fore taking  leave. 

She  nodded,  but  did  not  speak.  Then  he  saw  two 
tears  rise  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  dear  young   lady,  you  have  been  doing  too 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  153 

much  !  You  are  tired.  Don't  you  know  that  that  is 
very  dangerous  in  Rome  ?" 

"  It  is  nothing.  Mother  has  been  sick,  and  I  have 
been  up  with  her  two  nights.  Then,  as  she  did  not 
like  our  servant,  I  dismissed  her,  and  as  we  have  not 
got  any  one  else  yet,  I  have  had  a  good  deal  to  do. 
But  I  don't  mind  that  at  all,  beyond  being  a  lit- 
tle tired ;  it  was  only  your  refusing  to  come  up, 
when  it  seemed  so  easy.  But  never  mind  ;  you  will 
come  another  day."  And,  repressing  the  tears,  she 
smiled  faintly,  and  held  out  her  hand  for  good- 
bye. 

"  I  will  come  now,"  said  Noel.  He  took  the  basket 
again,  and  went  up  the  stairs.  He  was  touched  by 
the  two  tears,  but,  at  the  same  time,  vexed  with  him- 
self for  being  there  at  all.  There  was  not  one  chance 
in  five  hundred  that  her  work  was  worth  anything ; 
and,  in  the  four  hundred  and  ninety-nine,  pray  what 
was  he  to  say  ? 

She  brought  him  everything.  They  were  all  in  the 
four  hundred  and  ninety -nine.  In  his  opinion  they 
were  all  extremely  and  essentially  bad. 

It  was  one  of  Raymond  Noel's  beliefs  that,  where 
women  were  concerned,  a  certain  amount  of  falsity  was 
sometimes  indispensable.  There  were  occasions  when 
a  man  could  no  more  tell  the  bare  truth  to  a  woman 
than  he  could  strike  her ;  the  effect  would  be  the  same 
as  a  blow.  He  was  an  excellent  evader  when  he  chose 
to  exert  himself,  and  he  finally  got  away  from  the  little 
high-up  apartment  without  disheartening  or  offending 
its  young  mistress,  and  without  any  very  black  record 
of  direct  untruth — what  is  more,  without  any  positive 
promise  as  to  the  exact  date  of  his  next  visit.  But  all 


154  THE    STREET    OP   THE    HYACINTH 

this  was  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  take  for  a  girl  he  did 
not  know  or  care  for. 

Soon  afterwards  lie  met,  at  a  small  party,  Mrs.  Law- 
rence. 

"  Tell  me  a  little,  please,  about  the  young  lady  to 
whom  you  presented  me  at  Mrs.  Dudley's  reception — 
Miss  Macks,"  he  said,  after  some  conversation. 

"  A  little  is  all  I  can  tell,"  replied  Mrs.  Lawrence. 
"She  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  me  from  a  far- 
away cousin  of  mine,  who  lives  out  West  somewhere, 
and  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  twenty  years  ;  my  home, 
you  know,  is  in  New  Jersey.  How  they  learned  I  was 
in  Home  I  cannot  imagine  ;  but,  knowing  it,  I  suppose 
they  thought  that  Miss  Macks  and  I  would  meet,  as 
necessarily  as  we  should  if  together  in  their  own  vil- 
lage. The  letter  assures  me  that  the  girl  is  a  great 
genius ;  that  all  she  needs  is  an  opportunity.  They 
even  take  the  ground  that  it  will  be  a  privilege  for  me 
to  know  her !  But  I  am  mortally  tired  of  young  gen- 
iuses ;  we  have  so  many  here  in  Rome  !  So  I  told  her 
at  once  that  I  knew  nothing  of  modern  art — in  fact,  de- 
tested it — but  that  in  any  other  way  I  should  be  de- 
lighted to  be  of  use.  And  I  took  her  to  Mrs.  Dudley's 
omnium  gatherum.'1'1 

"Then  you  have  not  been  to  see  her?" 

"  No  ;  she  came  to  see  me.  I  sent  cards,  of  course  ; 
I  seldom  call.  What  did  you  think  of  her?" 

"  I  thought  her  charming,"  replied  Noel,  remember- 
ing the  night-vigils,  the  vegetables,  the  dismissed  ser- 
vant, and  the  two  tears  of  the  young  stranger — remem- 
bering, also,  her  extremely  bad  pictures. 

"  I  am  glad  she  has  found  a  friend  in  you,"  replied 
Mrs.  Lawrence.  "  She  was  very  anxious  to  meet  you  ; 


THE    STREET   OF  THE    HYACINTH  155 

she  looks  upon  you  as  a  great  authority.  If  she  really 
has  talent — of  course  you  would  know — you  tnust  tell 
me.  It  is  not  talent  I  am  so  tired  of,  but  the  pretence 
of  it.  She  struck  me,  although  wofully  unformed  and 
awkward,  of  course,  as  rather  intelligent." 

"  She  is  intelligence  personified,"  replied  Noel,  quali- 
fying it  mentally  with  "  intelligence  without  cultiva- 
tion." He  perceived  that  the  young  stranger  would 
have  no  help  from  Mrs.  Lawrence,  and  he  added  to 
himself:  "And  totally  inexperienced  purity  alone  in 
Rome."  To  be  sure,  there  was  the  mother  ;  but  he 
had  a  presentiment  that  this  lady,  as  guardian,  would 
not  be  of  much  avail. 

The  next  day  he  went  down  to  Naples  for  a  week 
with  some  friends.  Upon  his  return  he  stopped  at  Hor- 
ace Jackson's  studio  one  afternoon  as  he  happened  to 
be  passing.  His  time  was  really  much  occupied  ;  he 
was  a  favorite  in  Home.  To  his  surprise,  Jackson 
seemed  to  think  that  Miss  Macks  had  talent.  Her 
work  was  very  crude,  of  course  ;  she  had  been  brutally 
taught ;  teachers  of  that  sort  should  simply  be  put  out 
of  existence  with  the  bowstring.  He  had  turned  her 
back  to  the  alphabet;  and,  in  time,  in  time,  they — would 
see  what  she  could  do. 

Horace  Jackson  was  English  by  birth,  but  he  had 
lived  in  Italy  almost  all  his  life.  He  was  a  man  of  for- 
ty-five— short,  muscular,  his  thick,  rather  shaggy,  beard 
and  hair  mixed  with  gray ;  there  was  a  permanent  frown 
over  his  keen  eyes,  and  his  rugged  face  had  marked 
lines.  lie  was  a  man  of  strong  individuality.  He  had 
the  reputation  of  being  the  most  incorruptibly  honest 
teacher  in  Home.  Noel  had  known  him  a  long  time, 
and  liked  him,  ill-tempered  though  he  was.  Jackson, 


156  THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

however,  had  not  shown  any  especial  signs  of  a  liking 
for  Noel  in  return.  Perhaps  he  thought  that,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  there  could  not  be  much  in  common 
between  a  middle-aged,  morose  teacher,  who  worked 
hard,  who  knew  nothing  of  society,  and  did  not  want 
to  know,  and  a  man  like  Raymond  Noel.  True,  Noel 
was  also  an  artist — that  is,  a  literary  one.  But  he  had 
been  highly  successful  in  his  own  field,  and  it  was  un- 
derstood, also,  that  he  had  an  income  of  his  own  by  inher- 
itance, which,  if  not  opulence,  was  yet  sufficiently  large 
to  lift  him  quite  above  the  usual  res  anguata  of  his  breth- 
ren in  the  craft.  In  addition,  Jackson  considered  Noel 
a  fashionable  man  ;  and  that  would  have  been  a  barrier, 
even  if  there  had  been  no  other. 

As  the  Englishman  seemed  to  have  some  belief  in 
Miss  Macks,  Noel  did  not  say  all  he  had  intended  to 
say ;  he  did,  however,  mention  that  the  young  lady  had 
a  mistaken  idea  regarding  any  use  he  could  be  to  her; 
he  should  be  glad  if  she  could  be  undeceived. 

"  I  think  she  will  be,"  said  Jackson,  with  a  grim 
smile,  giving  his  guest  a  glance  of  general  survey  that 
took  him  in  from  head  to  foot ;  "  she  isn't  dull." 

Noel  understood  the  glance,  and  smiled  at  Jackson's 
idea  of  him. 

"  She  is  not  dull,  certainly,"  he  answered.  "But  she 
is  rather — inexperienced."  He  dismissed  the  subject, 
went  home,  dressed,  and  went  out  to  dinner. 

One  morning,  a  week  later,  he  was  strolling  through 
the  Doria  gallery.  He  was  in  a  bad  humor.  There 
were  many  people  in  the  gallery  that  day,  but  he  was 
not  noticing  them ;  he  detested  a  crowd.  After  a  while 
some  one  touched  his  coat -sleeve  from  behind.  He 
turned,  with  his  calmest  expression  upon  his  face;  when 


THE    STREET    OF    T11E    HYACINTH  157 

he  was  in  an  ill-humor  he  was  impassively  calm.  It  was 
Miss  Macks,  her  eyes  eager,  her  face  flushed  with  pleas- 
ure. 

"  Oh,  what  good  luck  !"  she  said.  "  And  to  think 
that  I  almost  went  to  the  Borghese,  and  might  have 
missed  you  !  I  am  so  delighted  that  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  I  am  actually  trembling."  And  she  was. 
"  I  have  so  longed  to  see  these  pictures  with  you,"  she 
went  on.  "  I  have  had  a  real  aching  disappointment 
about  it,  Mr.  Noel." 

Again  Noel  felt  himself  slightly  touched  by  her  ear- 
nestness. She  looked  prettier  than  usual,  too,  on  ac- 
count of  the  color. 

"  I  always  feel  a  self-reproach  when  with  you,  Miss 
Macks,"  he  answered — "  you  so  entirely  over-estimate 
me." 

"  Well,  if  I  do,  live  up  to  it,"  she  said,  brightly. 

"  Only  an  archangel  could  do  that." 

"  An  archangel  who  knows  about  Art !  I  have  been 
looking  at  the  Caraccis ;  what  do  you  think  of  them  ?" 

"  Never  mind  the  Caraccis ;  there  are  better  things 
to  look  at  here."  And  then  he  made  the  circuit  of  the 
gallery  with  her  slowly,  pointing  out  the  best  pictures. 
During  this  circuit  he  talked  to  her  as  he  would  have 
talked  to  an  intelligent  child  who  had  been  put  in  his 
charge  in  order  to  learn  something  of  the  paintings ;  he 
used  the  simplest  terms,  mentioned  the  marked  charac- 
teristics, and  those  only  of  the  different  schools,  and 
spoke  a  few  words  of  unshaded  condemnation  here  and 
there.  All  he  said  was  in  broad,  plain  outlines.  His 
companion  listened  earnestly.  She  gave  him  a  close 
attention,  almost  always  a  comprehension,  but  seldom 
agreement.  Her  disagreement  she  did  not  express  in 


158  THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

words,  but  he  could  read  it  in  her  eyes.  When  they 
had  seen  everything — and  it  took  some  time — 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  frankly,  and 
without  reference  to  anything  I  have  said,  your  real 
opinion  of  several  pictures  I  shall  name  —  that  is,  if 
you  can  remember?" 

"  I  remember  everything.     I  always  remember." 

"  Very  well.  What  do  you  think,  then,  of  the  Raph- 
ael double  portrait?" 

"  I  think  it  very  ugly." 

"  And  the  portrait  of  Andrea  Doria,  by  Sebastian  del 
Piombo  ?" 

"  Uglier  still." 

"  And  the  Velasquez  ?" 

"  Ugliest  of  all." 

"  And  the  two  large  Claude  Lorraines  ?" 

"  Rather  pretty  ;  but  insipid.  There  isn't  any  reality 
or  meaning  in  them." 

"  The  Memling  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  absolutely  hideous,  Mr.  Noel ;  it  hasn't 
a  redeeming  point." 

Raymond  Noel  laughed  with  real  amusement,  and 
almost  forgot  his  ill-humor. 

"  When  you  have  found  anything  you  really  admire 
in  the  galleries  here,  Miss  Macks,  will  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will.  I  should  wish  to  do  so  in  any 
case,  because,  if  you  are  to  help  me,  you  ought 'to 
thoroughly  understand  me.  There  is  one  thing  more 
I  should  like  to  ask,"  she  added,  as  they  turned  tow- 
ards the  door,  "  and  that  is  that  you  would  not  call  me 
Miss  Macks.  I  am  not  used  to  it,  and  it  sounds  strange- 
ly ;  no  one  ever  called  me  that  in  Tuscolee." 

"  What  did  they  call  you  in  Tuscolee  ?" 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  159 

"  They  called  me  Miss  Ettie ;  my  name  is  Ethelinda 
Faith.  But  my  friends  and  olcfer  people  called  me  just 
'  Ettie  ' ;  I  wish  you  would,  too." 

"  I  am  certainly  older,"  replied  Noel,  gravely  (he  was 
thirty  -  three) ;  "but  I  do  not  like  Ettie.  With  your 
permission,  I  will  call  you  Faith." 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  It's  so  old-fashioned!  It  was  my 
grandmother's  name." 

"  I  like  it  immensely,"  he  answered,  leading  the  way 
down-stairs. 

"  You  can't  think  how  I've  enjoyed  it,"  she  said, 
warmly,  at  the  door. 

"  Yet  you  do  not  agree  with  my  opinions  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  But  all  the  same  it  was  perfectly  delight- 
ful. Good-bye." 

He  had  signalled  for  a  carriage,  as  he  had,  as  usual, 
an  engagement.  She  preferred  to  walk.  He  drove  off, 
and  did  not  see  her  for  ten  days. 

Then  he  came  upon  her  again  and  again  in  the 
Doria  gallery.  He  was  fond  of  the  Doria,  and  often 
went  there,  but  he  had  no  expectation  of  meeting  Miss 
Macks  this  time ;  he  fancied  that  she  followed  a  sys- 
tem, going  through  her  list  of  galleries  in  regular  or- 
der, one  by  one,  and  in  that  case  she  would  hardly 
have  reached  the  Doria  on  a  second  round.  Her  list 
was  a  liberal  one ;  it  included  twenty.  Noel  had  sup- 
posed that  there  were  but  nine  in  Rome. 

This  time  she  did  not  see  him ;  she  had  some  sheets 
of  manuscript  in  her  hand,  and  was  alternately  reading 
from  them  and  looking  at  one  of  the  pictures.  She 
was  much  absorbed.  After  a  while  he  went  up. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Macks." 

She  started;  her  face  changed,  and  the  color  rose. 


160  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

She  was  as  delighted  as  before.  She  immediately 
showed  him  her  manuscript.  There  he  beheld,  writ- 
ten out  in  her  clear  handwriting,  all  he  had  said  of  the 
Doria  pictures,  page  after  page  of  it ;  she  had  actually 
reproduced  from  memory  his  entire  discourse  of  an 
hour. 

There  were  two  blank  spaces  left. 

"  There,  I  could  not  exactly  remember,"  said  Miss 
Macks,  apologetically.  "  If  you  would  tell  me,  I  should 
be  so  glad ;  then  it  would  be  quite  complete." 

"  I  shall  never  speak  again.  I  am  frightened,"  said 
Noel.  He  had  taken  the  manuscript,  and  was  looking 
it  over  with  inward  wonder. 

"  Oh,  please  do." 

"  Why  do  you  care  for  my  opinions,  Miss  Macks, 
when  you  do  not  agree  with  them?"  he  asked,  his  eyes 
still  on  the  pages. 

"You  said  you  would  call  me  Faith.  Why  do  I 
care  ?  Because  they  are  yours,  of  course." 

"  Then  you  think  I  know  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  you  do." 

"  But  it  follows,  then,  that  you  do  not." 

"  Yes ;  and  there  is  where  my  work  comes  in  ;  I 
have  got  to  study  up  to  you.  I  am  afraid  it  will  take 
a  long  time,  won't  it  ?" 

"  That  depends  upon  you.  It  would  take  very  little 
if  you  would  simply  accept  noncorabatively." 

"  Without  being  convinced  ?    That  I  could  never  do." 

"  You  want  to  be  convinced  against  your  will  ?" 

"  Xo  ;  my  will  itself  must  be  convinced  to  its  lowest 
depths." 

"  This  manuscript  won't  help  you." 

"  Indeed,  it  has  helped  me  greatly  already.     I  have 


THE    STREET    OF-TIIE    HYACINTH  161 

been  here  twice  with  it.  I  wrote  it  out  the  evening 
after  I  saw  you.  I  only  wish  I  had  one  for  each  of 
the  galleries !  But  I  feel  differently  now  about  asking 
you  to  go." 

"  I  told  you  you  would  desert  inc." 

"  No,  it  is  not  that.  But  Mr.  Jackson  says  you  are 
much  taken  up  with  the  fashionable  society  here,  and 
that  I  must  not  expect  you  to  give  me  so  much  of  your 
time  as  I  had  hoped  for.  He  says,  too,  that  your  art 
articles  will  do  me  quite  as  much  good  as  you  yourself, 
and  more ;  because  you  have  a  way,  he  says,  like  all 
society  men.  of  talking  as  if  you  had  no  real  convic- 
tions at  all,  and  that  would  unsettle  me." 

"Jackson  is  an  excellent  fellow,"  replied  Noel;  "I 
like  him  extremely.  And  when  would  you  like  to  go 
to  the  Borghese  ?" 

"  Oh,  will  you  take  me?"  she  said,  joyfully.  "Any 
time.  To-morrow." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs. — your  mother,  will  go,  also,", he  sug- 
gested, still  unable  to  recall  the  name ;  he  could  think 
of  nothing  but  "  stirrup,"  and  of  course  it  was  not  that. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  would  care  about  it,"  answered 
the  daughter. 

"  She  might.  You  know  we  make  more  of  mothers 
here  than  we  do  in  America,"  he  ventured  to  remark. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Miss  Macks,  calmly.  Evi- 
dently she  thought  his  remark  frivolous. 

He  abandoned  the  subject,  and  did  not  take  it  up 
again.  It  was  not  his  duty  to  instruct  Miss  Macks  in 
foreign  customs.  In  addition,  she  was  not  only  not  "  in 
society,"  but  she  was  an  art  student,  and  art  students 
had,  or  took,  privileges  of  their  own  in  Rome. 

"  At  what  hour  shall  I  come  for  you  ?"  he  said. 
11 


162  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACIXTH 

"  It  will  be  oflt  of  your  way  to  come  for  me ;  I  will 
meet  you  at  the  gallery,"  she  answered,  radiant  at  the 
prospect. 

lie  hesitated,  then  accepted  her  arrangement  of 
things.  He  would  take  her  way,  not  his  own.  The 
next  morning  he  went  to  the  Borghese  Palace  ten 
minutes  before  the  appointed  time.  But  she  was  al- 
ready there. 

"  Mother  thought  she  would  not  come  out — the  gal- 
leries tire  her  so,"  she  said ;  "  but  she  was  pleased  to 
be  remembered." 

They  spent  an  hour  and  a  half  among  the  pictures. 
She  listened  to  all  he  said  with  the  same  earnest  atten- 
tion. 

Within  the  next  five  weeks  Raymond  Noel  met  Miss 
Macks  at  other  galleries.  It  was  always  very  business- 
like— they  talked  of  nothing  but  the  pictures;  in  truth, 
her  systematic  industry  kept  him  strictly  down  to  the 
subject  in  hand.  He  learned  that  she  made  the  same 
manuscript  copies  of  all  he  said,  and,  when  he  was  not 
with  her,  she  went  alone,  armed  with  these  documents, 
and  worked  hard.  Her  memory  was  remarkable ;  she 
soon  knew  the  names  and  the  order  of  all  the  pictures 
in  all  the  galleries,  and  had  made  herself  acquainted 
with  an  outline,  at  least,  of  the  lives  of  all  the  artists 
who  had  painted  them.  During  this  time  she  was,  of 
course,  going  on  with  her  lessons ;  but  as  he  had  not 
been  again  to  see  Jackson,  or  to  the  street  of  the 
Hyacinth,  he  knew  nothing  of  her  progress.  He  did 
not  want  to  know ;  she  was  in  Jackson's  hands,  and 
Jackson  was  quite  competent  to  attend  to  her. 

In  these  five  weeks  he  gave  to  Miss  Macks  only  the 
odd  hours  of  his  leisure.  He  made  her  no  promises ; 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  163 

but  when  he  found  that  he  should  have  a  morning  or 
half-morning  unoccupied,  he  sent  a  note  to  the  street 
of  the  Hyacinth,  naming  a  gallery  and  an  hour.  She 
was  always  promptly  there,  and  so  pleased,  that  there 
was  a  sort  of  fresh  aroma  floating  through  the  time  he 
spent  with  her,  after  all — but  a  mild  one. 

To  give  the  proper  position  to  the  place  the  young 
art  student's  light  figure  occupied  on  the  canvas  of 
Raymond  Noel's  winter,  it  should  be  mentioned  that 
he  was  much  interested  in  a  French  lady  who  was 
spending  some  months  in  Rome.  He  had  known  her 
and  admired  her  for  a  long  time ;  but  this  winter  he 
was  seeing  more  of  her,  some  barriers  which  had  here- 
tofore stood  in  the  way  being  down.  Madame  B 

was  a  charming  product  of  the  effects  of  finished  culti- 
vation and  fashionable  life  upon  a  natural  foundation 
of  grace,  wit,  and  beauty  of  the  French  kind.  She  was 
not  artificial,  because  she  was  art  itself.  Real  art  is  as 
real  as  real  nature  is  natural.  Raymond  Noel  had  a 
highly  artistic  nature.  He  admired  art.  This  did  not 
prevent  him  from  taking  up  occasionally,  as  a  contrast 
to  this  lady,  the  society  of  the  young  girl  he  called 
"  Faith."  Most  men  of  imagination,  artistic  or  not,  do 
the  same  thing  once  in  a  while;  it  seems  a  necessity. 
With  Noel  it  was  not  the  contrast  alone.  The  French 
lady  led  him  an  uneasy  life,  and  now  and  then  he  took 
an  hour  of  Faith,  as  a  gentle  soothing  draught  of  safe 
quality.  She  believed  in  him  so  perfectly !  Now 
Madame  appeared  to  believe  in  him  not  at  all. 

It  must  be  added  that,  in  his  conversations  with  Miss 
Macks,  he  had  dropped  entirely  even  the  very  small 
amount  of  conventional  gallantry  that  he  had  bestowed 
upon  her  in  the  beginning.  He  talked  to  her  not  as 


164  THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

though  she  was  a  boy  exactly,  or  an  old  woman,  but  as 
though  he  himself  was  a  relative  of  mature  age — say 
an  uncle  of  benevolent  disposition  and  a  taste  for  art. 

February  gave  way  to  March.  And  now,  owing  to 
a  new  position  of  his  own  affairs,  Noel  saw  no  more  of 
Faith  Macks.  She  had  been  a  contrast,  and  he  did  not 
now  wish  for  a  contrast  or  a  soothing  draught,  and  a 
soothing  draught  was  not  at  present  required.  He 
simply  forgot  all  about  her. 

In  April  he  decided  rather  suddenly  to  leave  Rome. 

This  was  because  Madame  B had  gone  to  Paris, 

and  had  not  forbidden  her  American  suitor  to  follow 
her  a  few  days  later.  He  made  his  preparations  for 
departure,  and  these,  of  course,  included  farewell  calls. 
Then  he  remembered  Faith  Macks;  he  had  not  seen 
her  for  six  weeks.  He  drove  to  the  street  of  the 
Hyacinth,  and  went  up  the  dark  stairs.  Miss  Macks 
was  at  home,  and  came  in  without  delay  ;  apparently, 
in  her  trim  neatness,  she  was  always  ready  for  visitors. 

She  was  very  glad  to  see  him ;  but  did  not,  as  he  ex- 
pected, ask  why  he  had  not  come  before.  This  he 
thought  a  great  advance ;  evidently  she  was  learning, 
When  she  heard  that  he  had  come  to  say  good-bye 
her  face  fell. 

"  I  am  so  very  sorry  ;  please  sit  as  long  as  you  can, 
then,"  she  said,  simply.  "I  suppose  it  will  be  six 
months  before  I  see  you  again1,  you  will  hardly  return 
to  Rome  before  October."  That  he  would  come  at  that 
time  she  did  not  question. 

"  My  plans  are  uncertain,"  replied  Noel.  "  But  prob- 
ably I  shall  come  back.  One  always  comes  back  to 
Rome.  And  you  —  where  do  you  go?  To  Switzer- 
land ?" 


THE    STKEET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  165 

"  Why — we  go  nowhere,  of  course ;  we  stay  here. 
That  is  what  we  came  for,  and  we  are  all  settled." 

He  made  some  allusion  to  the  heat  and  unhealthi- 
ness. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  replied  Miss  Macks.  "  Plenty  of 
people  stay  ;  Mr.  Jackson  says  so.  It  is  only  the  rich 
who  go  away,  and  we  are  not  rich.  We  have  been 
through  hot  summers  in  Tuscolee,  I  can  tell  yon  !" 
Then,  without  asking  leave  this  time,  as  if  she  was  de- 
termined to  have  an  opinion  from  him  before  he  de- 
parted, she  took  from  a  portfolio  some  of  the  work 
she  had  done  under  Mr.  Jackson's  instruction. 

Noel  saw  at  once  that  the  Englishman  had  not  kept 
his  word.  He  had  not  put  her  back  upon  the  alpha- 
bet, or,  if  he  had  done  so,  he  had  soon  released  her, 
and  allowed  her  to  pursue  her  own  way  again.  The 
original  faults  were  as  marked  as  ever.  In  his  opinion 
all  was  essentially  bad. 

He  looked  in  silence.  But  she  talked  on  hopefully, 
explaining,  comparing,  pointing  out. 

"  What  does  Mr.  Jackson  think  of  this  ?"  he  said, 
selecting  the  one  he  thought  the  worst. 

"He  admires  the  idea  greatly,  he  thinks  it  very 
original.  He  says  that  my  strongest  point  is  original- 
ity," she  answered,  with  her  confident  frankness. 

"  He  means — ah — originality  of  subject  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  my  execution  is  not  much  yet.  But  that 
will  come  in  time.  Of  course,  the  subject,  the  idea,  is 
the  important  thing ;  the  execution,  is  secondary." 
Here  she  paused ;  something  seemed  to  come  into  her 
mind.  "  I  know  you  do  not  think  so,"  she  added, 
thoughtfully,  "  because,  you  know,  you  said  "  —  and 
here  she  quoted  a  page  from  one  of  his  art  articles 


166  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

with  her  clear  accuracy.  "  I  have  never  understood 
what  you  meant  by  that,  Mr.  Noel ;  or  why  you 
wrote  it." 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly.  He  did  not  reply ; 
his  eyes  were  upon  one  of  the  sketches. 

"  It  would  be  dreadful  for  me  if  you  were  right !" 
she  added,  with  slow  conviction. 

"  I  thought  you  believed  that  I  was  always  right,"  he 
said,  smiling,  as  he  placed  the  sketches  on  the  table. 

But  she  remained  very  serious. 

"You  are — in  everything  but  that." 

He  made  some  unimportant  reply,  and  turned  the 
conversation.  But  she  came  back  to  it. 

"  It  would  be  dreadful,"  she  repeated,  earnestly,  with 
the  utmost  gravity  in  her  gray  eyes. 

"  I  hope  the  long  summer  will  not  tire  you,"  he  an- 
swered, irrelevantly.  "  Shall  I  not  have  the  pleasure 
of  saying  good-bye — although  that,  of  course,  is  not  a 
pleasure — to  Mrs. — to  your  mother  ?" 

He  should  have  made  the  speech  in  any  case,  as  it 
was  the  proper  one  to  make ;  but  as  he  sat  there  he 
had  thought  that  he  really  would  like  to  have  a  look  at 
the  one  guardian  this  young  girl  was  to  have  during 
her  long,  lonely  summer  in  Rome. 

"  I  will  tell  her.  Perhaps  when  she  hears  that  you 
are  going  away  she  will  feel  like  coming  in,"  said  Miss 
Macks. 

She  came  back  after  some  delay,  and  with  her  ap- 
peared a  matron  of  noticeable  aspect. 

"  My  mother,"  she  said,  introducing  her  (evidently 
Noel  was  never  to  get  the  name) ;  "  this  is  Mr.  Noel, 
mother." 

"And  very  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  said 


THE,    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  167 

Mrs.  Spurr,  extending  her  band  with  much  cordiality. 
"  I  said  to  Ettie  that  I'd  come  in,  seeing  as  'twas  you, 
though  I  don't  often  see  strangers  nowadays  on  ac- 
count of  poor  health  for  a  long  time  past ;  rheumatism 
and  asthma.  But  I  feel  beholden  to  you,  Mr.  No-ul, 
because  you've  been  so  good  to  Ettie.  You've  been 
real  kind." 

Ettie's  mother  was  a  very  portly  matron  of  fifty-five, 
with  a  broad  face,  indistinct  features,  very  high  color, 
and  a  breathless,  panting  voice.  Her  high  color  —  it 
really  was  her  most  noticeable  feature — was  surmounted 
by  an  imposing  cap,  adorned  with  large  bows  of  scarlet 
ribbon  ;  a  worsted  shawl,  of  the  hue  known  as  "  sol- 
ferino,"  decked  her  shoulders;  under  her  low-necked 
collar  reposed  a  bright  blue  necktie,  its  ends  embroid- 
ered in  red  and  yellow  ;  and  her  gown  was  of  a  vivid 
dark  green.  But  although  her  colors  swore  at  each 
other,  she  seemed  amiable.  She  was  also  voluble. 

Noel,  while  shaking  hands,  was  considering,  men- 
tally, with  some  retrospective  amusement,  his  condition 
of  mind  if  this  lady  had  accepted  his  invitations  to 
visit  the  galleries. 

"You  must  sit  down,  mother,"  said  Miss  Macks, 
bringing  forward  an  easy-chair.  "  She  has  not  been  so 
well  as  usual,  lately,"  she  said,  explanatorily,  to  Noel, 
as  she  stood  for  a  moment  beside  her  mother's  chair. 

"  It's  this  queer  Eye-talian  air,"  said  Mrs.  Spurr. 
"  You  see  I  ain't  used  to  it.  Not  but  what  I  ain't  glad 
to  be  here  on  Ettie's  account — real  glad.  It's  just 
what  she  needs  and  oughter  have." 

The  girl  put  her  hand  on  her  mother's  shoulder  with 
a  little  caressing  touch.  Then  she  left  the  room. 

"Yes,  I  do  feel  beholden  to  you,  Mr.  No-ul.     But, 


168  THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

then,  she'll  be  a  credit  to  you,  to  whatever  you've  done 
for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Spurr,  when  they  were  left  alone. 
"  Her  talunts  are  very  remarkable.  She  was  the  head 
scholar  of  the  Young  Ladies'  Seminary  through  four 
whole  years,  and  all  the  teachers  took  a  lot  of  pride  in 
her.  And  then  her  paintings,  too  !  I'm  sorry  you're 
going  off  so  soon.  You  see,  she  sorter  depends  upon 
your  opinion." 

Noel  felt  a  little  stir  at  the  edges  of  his  conscience  ; 
he  knew  perfectly  tliat  his  opinion  was  that  Miss  Macks, 
as  an  artist,  would  never  do  anything  worth  the  mate- 
rials she  used. 

"  I  leave  her  in  good  hands,"  he  said. 

After  all,  it  was  Jackson's  responsibility,  not  his. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Jackson  thinks  a  deal  of  her.  I  can  see 
that  plain !"  answered  Mrs.  Spurr,  proudly. 

Here  the  daughter  returned,  bringing  a  little  note- 
book and  pencil. 

"  Do  you  know  what  these  are  for  ?"  she  said.  "  I 
want  you  to  write  down  a  list  of  the  best  books  for  me 
to  read  this  summer,  while  you  are  gone.  I  am  going 
to  work  hard ;  but  if  I  have  books,  too,  the  time  won't 
seem  so  long." 

Noel  considered  a  moment.  In  one  way  her  affairs 
were  certainly  none  of  his  business ;  in  another  way 
they  were,  because  she  had  thrust  them  upon  him. 

"  I  will  not  give  you  a  list,  Miss  Macks ;  probably 
you  would  not  be  able  to  find  the  books  here.  But 
I  will  send  you,  from  Paris  or  London,  some  things 
that  are  rather  good,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  do 
so." 

She  said  he  was  very  kind.     Her  face  brightened. 

"  If  she  has  appreciation  enough  to  comprehend  what 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  169 

I  send  her,"  he  thought,  "  perhaps  in  the  end  she  will 
have  a  different  opinion  about  my  'kindness'!" 

Soon   afterwards  he  took  leave.     The  next  day  he 
went  to  Paris. 


The  events  of  Raymond  Noel's  life,  after  lie  left 
Rome  that  spring,  were  various.  Some  were  pleasant, 
some  unpleasant;  several  were  quite  unexpected.  Their 
combinations  and  results  kept  him  from  returning  to 
Italy  the  following  winter,  and  the  winter  after  that  he 
spent  in  Egypt.  When  he  again  beheld  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's  he  remembered  that  it  lacked  but  a  month 
of  two  full  years  since  he  had  said  good  -  bye  to  it ;  it 
was  then  April,  and  now  it  was  March.  He  established 
himself  in  some  pleasant  rooms,  looked  about  him,  and 
then  began  to  take  up,  one  by  one,  the  old  threads  of 
his  Roman  life — such,  at  least,  as  remained  unbroken. 
He  found  a  good  many.  Threads  do  not  break  in 
Rome.  He  had  once  said  himself  that  the  air  was  so 
soft  and  historic  that  nothing  broke  there — not  even 
hearts.  But  this  was  only  one  of  his  little, speeches. 
In  reality  he  did  not  believe  much  in  the  breaking  of 
hearts  ;  he  had  seen  them  stretch  so  1 

It  may  be  said  with  truth  that  Noel  had  not  thought 
of  Miss  Macks  for  months.  This  was  because  he  had 
had  other  things  to  think  of.  He  had  sent  her  the 
books  from  Paris,  with  an  accompanying  note,  a  charm- 
ing little  note — which  gave  no  address  for  reply.  Since 
then  his  mind  had  been  otherwise  occupied.  But  as 
he  never  entirely  forgot  anything  that  had  once  inter- 
ested him,  even  although  but  slightly  (this  was  in  real- 


170  THE    STBEET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

ity  a  system  of  LIs;  it  gave  him  many  holds  on  life, 
and  kept  stored  up  a  large  supply  of  resources  ready 
for  use  when  wanted),  he  came,  after  a  while,  on  the 
canvas  of  his  Roman  impressions,  to  the  figure  of  Miss 
Macks.  When  he  came  to  it  he  went  to  see  her ;  that 
is,  he  went  to  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth. 

Of  course,  she  might  not  be  there;  a  hundred  things 
might  have  happened  to  her.  He  could  have  hunted 
up  Horace  Jackson  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  he  rather  pre- 
ferred to  see  the  girl  herself  first — that  is,  if  she  was 
there.  Mrs.  Lawrence,  the  only  person  among  his  ac- 
quaintances who  had  known  her,  was  not  in  Rome. 
Reaching  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth,  he  interrogated 
the  old  woman  who  acted  as  portress  at  the  lower  door, 
keeping  up  at  the  same  time  a  small  commerce  in  frit- 
ters ;  yes,  the  Americans  were  still  on  the  fourth  floor. 
He  ascended  the  dark  stairway.  The  confiding  little 
"  Ettie  "  card  was  no  longer  upon  the  door.  In  its 
place  was  a  small  framed  sign :  "  Miss  Macks'  School." 

This  told  a  story  ! 

However,  he  rang.  It  was  the  same  shrill,  ill-tem- 
pered little  bell,  and  when  the  door  opened  it  was  Miss 
Macks  herself  who  opened  it.  She  was  much  changed. 

The  parlor  had  been  turned  into  a  school-room — at 
present  empty  of  pupils.  But  even  as  a  school-room 
it  was  more  attractive  than  it  had  been  before.  He 
took  a  seat,  and  spoke  the  usual  phrases  of  a  renewal  of 
acquaintance  with  his  accustomed  ease  and  courtesy ; 
Miss  Macks  responded  briefly.  She  said  that  her  moth- 
er was  not  very  well ;  she  herself  quite  well.  No,  they 
had  not  left  Italy,  nor  indeed  the  neighborhood  of 
Rome ;  they  had  been  a  while  at  Albano. 

The  expression  of  her  face  had  greatly  altered.    The 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  171 

old  direct,  wide  glance  was  gone ;  gone  also  what  lie  bad 
called  her  over-confidence  ;  she  looked  much  older.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  was  more  grace  in  her  bearing,  more 
comprehension  of  life  in  her  voice  and  eyes.  She  was 
dressed  as  plainly  as  before ;  but  everything,  including 
the  arrangement  of  her  hair,  was  in  the  prevalent  style. 

She  did  not  speak  of  her  school,  and  therefore  he  did 
not.  But  after  a  while  he  asked  how  the  painting 
came  on.  Her  face  changed  a  little ;  but  it  was  more 
in  the  direction  of  a  greater  calm  than  hesitation  or 
emotion. 

"  I  am  not  painting  now,"  she  answered. 

"  You  have  given  it  up  temporarily  2" 

"  Permanently." 

"Ah — isn't  that  rather  a  pity  ?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  a  gleam  of  scorn  filtered  into 
the  glance. 

"  You  know  it  is  not  a  pity,"  she  said. 

He  was  a  little  disgusted  at  the  scorn.  Of  course, 
the  only  ground  for  him  to  take  was  the  ground  upon 
which  she  stood  when  he  last  saw  her ;  at  that  time  she 
proposed  to  pass  her  life  in  painting,  and  it  was  but 
good  manners  for  him  to  accept  her  intentions  as  she 
had  presented  them. 

"  I  never  assumed  to  be  a  judge,  you  know,"  he  an- 
swered. "  When  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you, 
painting  was,  you  remember,  your  cherished  occupa- 
tion !" 

"  When  you  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me,  Mr. 
Noel,"  said  Miss  Macks,  still  with  unmoved  calm,  "  I 
was  a  fool." 

Did  she  wish  to  go  into  the  subject  at  length?  Or 
was  that  merely  an  exclamation  ? 


172  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

"  When  I  last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  you 
were  taking  lessons  of  Mr.  Jackson,"  he  said,  to  give  a 
practical  turn  to  the  conversation.  "  Is  he  still  here  ? 
How  is  he  ?" 

"  He  is  very  well,  now.     He  is  dead." 

(She  was  going  to  be  dramatic  then,  in  any  case.) 

He  expressed  his  regret,  and  it  was  a  sincere  one ; 
he  had  always  liked  and  respected  the  honest,  morose 
Englishman.  He  asked  a  question  or  two.  Miss  Macks 
replied  that  he  had  died  here  in  the  street  of  the  Hya- 
cinth— in  the  next  room.  He  had  fallen  ill  during  the 
autumn  following  Noel's  departure,  and  when  his  ill- 
ness grew  serious,  they — her  mother  and  herself — had 
persuaded  him  to  come  to  them.  He  had  lived  a  month 
longer,  and  died  peacefully  on  Christmas  Eve. 

"  He  was  one  of  the  most  honest  men  I  ever  knew," 
said  Noel.  Then,  as  she  did  not  reply,  he  ventured 
this  :  "  That  was  the  reason  I  recommended  him  when 
you  asked  me  to  select  a  teacher  for  you." 

"  Your  plan  was  made  useless  by  an  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstance," she  answered,  with  an  evident  effort. 

"A  circumstance?" 

"Yes;  he  fell  in  love  with  me.  If  I  did  not  con- 
sider his  pure,  deep,  and  devoted  affection  the  greatest 
honor  of  my  life  I  would  not  mention  it.  I  tell  you 
because  it  will  explain  to  you  his  course." 

"  Yes,  it  explains,"  said  Noel.  As  he  spoke  there 
came  across  him  a  realization  of  the  whole  of  the 
strength  of  the  love  such  a  man  as  Horace  Jackson 
would  feel,  and  the  way  in  which  it  would  influence 
him.  Of  course,  he  saw  to  the  full  the  imperfection  of 
her  work,  the  utter  lack  of  the  artist's  conception,  the 
artist's  eye  and  touch  ;  but  probably  he  had  loved  her 


THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  173 

from  the  beginning,  and  had  gone  on  hoping  to  win  her 
love  in  return.  She  was  not  removed  from  him  by  any 
distance;  she  was  young,  but  she  was  also  poor,  friend- 
less, and  alone.  When  she  was  his  wife  he  would  tell 
her  the  truth,  and  in  the  greatness  of  his  love  the  rev- 
elation would  be  naught.  "  He  was  a  good  man,"  he 
said.  "He  was  always  lonely.  I  am  glad  that  at  last 
he  was  with  your  mother  and  you." 

"  His  goodness  was  simply  unbounded.  If  he  had 
lived  he  would  have  remained  always  a  faithful,  kind, 
and  respectful  son  to  my  dear  mother.  That,  of 
course,  would  have  been  everything  to  me."  She 
said  this  quietly,  yet  her  tone  seemed  to  hold  inten- 
tion. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  that  perhaps  she  had  mar- 
ried the  Englishman,  and  was  now  his  widow.  The 
sign  on  the  door  bore  her  maiden  name,  but  that  might 
have  been  an  earlier  venture. 

"  Had  you  opened  your  school  at  that  time  ?"  he 
asked.  "  I  may  speak  of  it,  since,  of  course,  I  saw  the 
sign  upon  the  door." 

"Not  until  two  months  later;  I  had  the  sign  made 
then.  But  it  was  of  little  use ;  day-schools  do  not 
prosper  in  Rome  ;  they  are  not  the  custom.  I  have  a 
small  class  twice  a  week,  but  1  live  by  going  out  as 
day-governess.  I  have  a  number  of  pupils  of  that  kind  ; 
I  have  been  very  successful.  The  old  Roman  families 
have  a  fancy  for  English-speaking  governesses,  you 

know.  Last  summer  I  was  with  the  Princess  C ,  at 

Albano ;  her  children  are  my  pupils." 

"  Her  villa  is  a  delightful  one,"  said  Xoel ;  "  you 
must  have  enjoyed  that." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  enjoyed,  but  I  learned.      I 


174  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

have  learned  a  great  deal  in  many  ways  since  I  saw  you 
last,  Mr.  Noel.  I  have  grown  very  old." 

"As  you  were  especially  young  when  you  saw  me 
last  it  does  not  matter  much,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"  Yes,  I  was  especially  young."  She  looked  at  him 
soberly.  "  I  do  not  feel  bitterly  towards  you,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  Strange  !  I  thought  I  should.  But  now  that 
I  see  you  in  person  it  comes  over  me  that,  probably, 
you  .did  not  intend  to  deceive  me ;  that  not  only  you 
tried  to  set  me  right  by  selecting  Mr.  Jackson  as  my 
teacher,  but  again  you  tried  when  you  sent  me  those 
books.  It  was  not  much  to  do  !  But  knowing  the 
world  as  I  now  know  it,  I  see  that  it  was  all  that  could 
have  been  expected.  At  first,  however,  I  did  not  see 
this.  After  I  went  to  Mr.  Bellot,  and,  later,  to  Mr. 
Salviati,  there  were  months  when  I  felt  very  bitterly 
towards  you.  My  hopes  were  false  ones,  and  had  been 
so  from  the  beginning ;  you  knew  that  they  were,  yet 
you  did  not  set  me  right." 

"  I  might  have  done  more  than  I  did,"  answered  Noel. 
"  I  have  a  habit  of  not  assuming  responsibility  ;  I  sup- 
pose I  have  grown  selfish.  But  if  you  went  to  Bellot, 
then  it  was  not  Jackson  who  told  you  ?" 

"He  intimated  something  when  he  asked  me  to 
marry  him ;  after  that  his  illness  came  on,  and  we  did 
not  speak  of  it  again.  But  I  did  not  believe  him.  I 
was  very  obstinate.  I  went  to  Mr.  Bellot  the  1st  of 
January  ;  I  wished  him  to  take  me  as  pupil.  In  answer 
he  told  me  that  I  had  not  a  particle  of  talent ;  that  all 
my  work  was  insufferably  bad;  that  I  better  throw 
away  my  brushes  and  take  in  sewing." 

"  Bellot  is  always  a  brute  !"  said  Noel. 

"  If  he  told  the  truth  brutally,  it  was  still  the  truth ; 


THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  175 

and  it  was  the  truth  I  needed.  But  even  then  I  was 
not  convinced,  and  I  went  to  Mr.  Salviati.  He  was  more 
gentle  ;  lie  explained  to  me  my  lacks ;  but  his  judg- 
ment was  the  same.  I  came  home;  it  was  the  10th  of 
January,  a  beautiful  Roman  winter  day.  I  left  my  pict- 
ures, went  over  to  St.  Peter's,  and  walked  there  under  its 
bright  mosaics  all  the  afternoon.  The  next  day  I  had 
advertisements  of  a  day-school  placed  at  the  bankers' 
and  in  the  newspapers.  I  thought  that  I  could  teach 
better  than  I  could  sew."  All  this  she  said  with  per- 
fect calm. 

"  I  greatly  admire  your  bravery,  Miss  Macks.  Per- 
mit me  to  add  that  I  admire,  even  more,  the  clear, 
strong,  good  sense  which  has  carried  you  through." 

"  I  had  my  mother  to  think  of ;  my — good  sense 
might  not  have  been  so  faithful  otherwise." 

"You  do  not  think  of  returning  to  America?" 

"  Probably  not ;  I  doubt  if  my  mother  could  bear  the 
voyage  now.  AVe  have  no  one  to  call  us  back  but  my 
brother,  and  he  has  not  been  with  us  for  years,  and 
would  not  be  if  we  should  return  ;  he  lives  in  California. 
We  sold  the  farm,  too,  before  we  came.  No  ;  for  the 
present,  at  least,  it  is  better  for  us  to  remain  here." 

"  There  is  one  more  question  I  should  like  to  ask," 
said  Noel,  later.  "  But  I  have  no  possible  right  to  do 
so." 

"  I  will  give  you  the  right.  "When  I  remember  the 
things  I  asked  you  to  do  for  me,  the  demands  I  made 
upon  your  time,  I  can  well  answer  a  few  questions  in 
return.  I  was  a  miracle  of  ignorance." 

"  I  always  did  you  justice  in  those  respects,  Miss 
Macks ;  all  that  I  understood  at  once.  My  question 
refers  to  Horace  Jackson  :  I  see  you  appreciated  his 


176  THE    STREET    OP   TUB    HYACINTH 

worth  —  which  was  rare  —  yet  you  would  not  marry 
him." 

"  I  did  not  love  him." 

"  Did  any  of  his  relatives  come  out  from  England  ?" 
he  said,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"  After  his  death  a  cousin  came." 

"  As  heir  to  what  was  left  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  He  should  have  left  it  to  you." 

"  He  wished  to  do  so.  Of  course,  I  would  not  ac- 
cept it." 

"  I  thank  you  for  answering.  My  curiosity  was  not 
an  idle  one."  He  paused.  "  If  you  will  permit  me  to 
express  it,  your  course  has  been  very  brave  and  true.  I 
greatly  admire  it." 

"  You  are  kind,"  said  Miss  Macks. 

There  was  not  in  her  voice  any  indication  of  sarcasm. 
Yet  the  fact  that  he  immediately  thought  of  it  made 
him  suspect  that  it  was  there.  He  took  leave  soon  after- 
wards. He  was  smarting  a  little  under  the  sarcasm  he 
had  divined,  and,  as  he  was,  it  was  like  him  to  request 
permission  to  come  again. 

For  Raymond  Noel  lived  up  with  a  good  deal  of  de- 
termination to  his  own  standard  of  what  was  manly  ; 
if  his  standard  was  not  set  on  any  very  fine  elevation 
of  self-sacrifice  or  heroism,  it  was  at  least  firmly  estab- 
lished where  it  did  stand,  and  he  kept  himself  fairly 
near  it.  If  Miss  Macks  was  sarcastic,  he  had  been  at 
fault  somewhere ;  he  would  try  to  atone. 

He  saw  her  four  times  during  the  five  weeks  of  his 
stay  in  Rome  ;  upon  three  other  occasions  when  he 
went  to  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth  she  was  not  at 
home.  The  third  week  in  April  he  decided  to  go  to 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  177 

Venice.  Before  going  lie  asked  if  there  was  not  some- 
thing he  could  do  for  her ;  but  she  said  there  was 
nothing,  and  he  himself  could  think  of  nothing.  She 
was  well  established  in  her  new  life  and  occupations, 
and  needed  nothing — at  least,  nothing  that  he  could 
bestow. 

The  next  winter  he  came  back  to  Rome  early  in  the 
season,  before  Christmas.  By  chance  one  of  the  first 
persons  he  encountered  was  Mrs.  Lawrence.  She  be- 
gan immediately  to  tell  him  a  piece  of  American  news, 
in  which  he,  as  an  American,  would  of  course  be  in- 
terested ;  the  news  was  that  "  the  brother  of  the  Prin- 
cess C that  is  Count  L ,  you  know — is  de- 
termined to  marry  Ettie  Macks.  You  remember  her, 
don't  you?  I  introduced  you  to  her  at  the  Dudley 
reception,  three  years  ago." 

Noel  thought  that  probably  he  remembered  her  bet- 
ter than  Mrs.  Lawrence  did,  seeing  that  that  lady  had 
never  troubled  herself  to  enter  the  street  of  the  Hya- 
cinth. But  he  did  her  injustice.  Mrs.  Lawrence  had 
troubled  herself — lately. 

"  It  seems  that  she  has  been  out  at  Albano  for  two 
summers,  as  governess  to  his  sister's  children  ;  it  was 
there  that  he  saw  her.  He  has  announced  his  determi- 
nation to  the  family,  and  they  are  immensely  disturbed 
and  frightened  ;  they  had  it  all  arranged  for  him  to 
marry  a  second  cousin  down  at  Naples,  who  is  rich — 
these  Italians  are  so  worldly,  you  know !  But  he  is 
very  determined,  they  say,  and  will  do  as  he  pleases  in 
spite  of  them.  lie  hasn't  much  money,  but  of  course 
it's  a  great  match  for  Ettie  Macks.  She  will  be  a 
countess,  and  now,  I  suppose,  more  American  girls  will 

couie  over  than  ever  before  !     Of  course,  as  soon  as  I 
12 


178  THE    STREET   OF   TUB    IIYACINTH 

heard  of  it,  I  went  to  see  her.  I  felt  that  she  would 
need  advice  about  a  hundred  things.  In  the  beginning 
she  brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  me  from  a  dear 
cousin  of  mine,  and,  naturally,  she  would  rely  upon  me 
as  her  chief  friend  now.  She  is  very  much  improved. 
She  was  rather  silent ;  but,  of  course,  I  shall  go  again. 
The  count  is  willing  to  take  the  mother,  too,  and  that, 
under  the  circumstances,  is  not  a  small  matter;  she  is  a 
good  deal  to  take.  Until  the  other  day  I  had  not  seen 
Mrs.  Spurr !  However,  I  suppose  that  her  deficiencies 
are  not  apparent  in  a  language  she  cannot  speak.  If 
her  daughter  would  only  insist  upon  her  dressing  in 
black !  But  the  old  lady  told  me  herself,  in  the  most 
cheerful  way,  that  she  liked  <  a  sprinkling  of  color.' 
And  at  the  moment,  I  assure  you,  she  had  on  five 
different  shades  of  red  !" 

Noel  had  intended  to  present  himself  immediately  at 
the  street  of  the  Hyacinth ;  but  a  little  attack  of  illness 
kept  him  in  for  a  while,  and  ten  days  had  passed  before 
he  went  up  the  dark  stairway.  The  maid  said  that 
Miss  Macks  was  at  home  ;  presently  she  came  in.  They 
had  ten  minutes  of  conversation  upon  ordinary  topics, 
and  then  he  took  up  the  especial  one. 

"  I  am  told  that  you  are  soon  to  be  a  countess,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  have  come  to  give  you  my  best  good 

wishes.  My  congratulations  I  reserve  for  Count  L , 

with  whom  I  have  a  slight  acquaintance ;  he  is,  in  my 
opinion,  a  very  fortunate  man." 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  is  fortunate ;  fortunate  in  my  re- 
fusal. I  shall  not  marry  Count  L ." 

"  He  is  not  a  bad  fellow." 

"  Isn't  your  praise  somewhat  faint  ?"  This  time  the 
sarcasm  was  visible. 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  179 

"  Oh,  I  am  by  no  means  his  advocate  !  All  I  meant 
was  that,  as  these  modern  Romans  go,  he  was  not 
among  the  worst.  Of  course  I  should  have  expressed 
myself  very  differently  if  you  had  said  you  were  to 
marry  him." 

"  Yes ;  you  would  then  have  honored  me  with  your 
finest  compliments." 

He  did  not  deny  this. 

"  Shall  you  continue  to  live  in  Rome  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Certainly.  I  shall  have  more  pupils  and  patronage 
now  than  I  know  what  to  do  with ;  the  whole  family 
connection  is  deeply  obliged  to  me." 

They  talked  awhile  longer. 

"  We  have  always  been  unusually  frank  with  each 
other,  Miss  Macks,"  he  said,  towards  the  end  of  his 
visit.  "  We  have  never  stopped  at  conventionalities.  I 
wonder  if  you  will  tell  me  why  you  refused  him  ?" 

"  You  are  too  curious.  As  to  frankness,  I  have  been 
frank  with  you ;  not  you  with  me.  And  there  was  no 
conventionality,  simply  because  I  did  not  know  what  it 
was." 

"  I  believe  you  are  in  love  with  some  one  in  America," 
he  said,  laughing. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  answered  Miss  Macks.  She  had 
certainly  gained  greatly  in  self-possession  during  the 
past  year. 

He  saw  her  quite  frequently  after  this.  Her  life  was 
no  longer  solitary.  As  she  had  said,  she  was  over- 
whelmed with  pupils  and  patronage  from  the  friends  of 

the  Princess  C -;  in  addition,  the  American  girl 

who  had  refused  a  fairly-indorsed  and  well-appearing 
count  was  now  something  of  a  celebrity  among  the 
American  visitors  in  Rome.  That  they  knew  of  her  re- 


180  THE   STREET   OF   THE    HYACINTH 

fusal  was  not  her  fault ;  the  relatives  of  Count  L 

had  announced  their  objections  as  loud  and  widely  as 
the  count  had  announced  his  determination.  Appar- 
ently neither  side  had  thought  of  a  non-acceptance. 
Cards,  not  a  few,  were  sent  to  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth ; 
some  persons  even  climbed  the  five  flights  of  stairs.  Mrs. 
Spurr  saw  a  good  deal  of  company — and  enjoyed  it. 

Noel  was  very  fond  of  riding;  when  in  Rome  he 
always  rode  on  the  Campagna.  He  had  acted  as  escort 
to  various  ladies,  and  one  day  he  invited  Miss  Macks 
to  accompany  him — that  is,  if  she  were  fond  of  riding 
She  had  ridden  in  America,  and  enjoyed  it;  she  would 
like  to  go  once,  if  he  would  not  be  troubled  by  an  im- 
provised habit.  They  went  once.  Then  a  second  time, 
an  interval  of  three  weeks  between.  Then,  after  a 
while,  a  third  time. 

Upon  this  occasion  an  accident  happened,  the  first  of 
Noel's  life;  his  horse  became  frightened,  and,  skilled 
rider  though  he  was,  he  was  thrown.  He  was  dragged, 
too,  for  a  short  distance.  His  head  came  against  some 
stones,  and  he  lost  consciousness.  When  it  came  back 
it  did  not  come  wholly.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  be 
far  away,  and  the  girl  who  was  weeping  and  calling  his 
name  to  be  upon  the  other  side  of  a  wide  space  like 
an  ocean,  over  which,  without  volition  of  his  own,  he 
was  being  slowly  wafted.  As  he  came  nearer,  still 
slowly,  he  perceived  that  in  some  mysterious  way  she 
was  holding  in  her  arms  something  that  seemed  to  be 
himself,  although  he  had  not  yet  reached  her.  Then, 
gradually,  spirit  and  body  were  reunited,  he  heard 
what  she  was  saying,  and  felt  her  touch.  Even  then 
it  was  only  after  several  minutes  that  he  was  able  to 
move  and  unclose  his  heavy  eyes. 


THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  181 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  not  dead,  her  wild  grief 
was  at  once  merged  in  the  thought  of  saving  him.  She 
had  jumped  from  her  horse,  she  knew  not  how  ;  but  he 
had  not  strayed  far;  a  shepherd  had  seen  him,  and  was 
now  coming  towards  them.  He  signalled  to  another, 
and  the  two  carried  Noel  to  a  house  which  was  not  far 
distant.  A  messenger  was  sent  to  the  city ;  aid  came, 
and  before  night  Noel  was  in  his  own  rooms  at  the 
head  of  the  Via  Sistina,  near  the  Spanish  steps. 

His  injuries  proved  to  be  not  serious;  he  had  lost 
consciousness  from  the  shock,  and  this,  with  his  pallor 
and  the  blood  from  the  cuts  made  by  the  stones,  had 
given  him  the  look  of  death.  The  cuts,  however,  were 
not  deep ;  the  effect  of  the  shock  passed  away.  He 
kept  his  bed  for  a  week  under  his  physician's  ad- 
vice ;  he  had  a  good  deal  of  time  to  think  during  that 
week.  Later  his  friends  were  admitted.  As  has  been 
said  before,  Noel  was  a  favorite  in  Rome,  and  he  had 
friends  not  a  few.  Those  who  could  not  come  in  person 
sent  little  notes  and  baskets  of  flowers.  Among  these 
Miss  Macks  was  not  numbered.  But  then  she  was  not 
fashionable. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  patient  was  allowed  to 
go  out.  He  took  a  short  walk  to  try  his  strength,  and, 
finding  that  it  held  out  well,  he  went  to  the  street  of 
the  Hyacinth. 

Miss  Macks  was  at  home.  She  was  "  so  glad  "  to 
see  him  out  again  ;  and  was  he  "  really  strong  enough  ;" 
and  he  "  should  be  very  prudent  for  a  while ;"  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth.  She  talked  more  than  usual,  and, 
for  her,  quite  rapidly. 

He  let  her  go  on  for  a  time.  Then  he  took  the  con- 
versation into  his  own  hands.  With  few  preliminaries, 


182  THE   STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

and  with  much  feeling  in  his  voice  and  eyes,  he  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife. 

She  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment ;  she  turned 
very  white,  and  did  not  answer.  He  thought  she  was 
going  to  burst  into  tears.  But  she  did  not ;  she  only  sat 
gazing  at  him,  while  her  lips  trembled.  He  urged  his 
point ;  he  spoke  strongly. 

"You  are  worth  a  hundred  of  me,"  he  said.  "You 
are  true  and  sincere ;  I  am  a  dilettante  in  everything. 
But,  dilettante  as  I  am,  in  one  way  I  have  always  ap- 
preciated you,  and,  lately,  all  other  ways  have  become 
merged  in  that  one.  I  am  much  in  earnest ;  I  know 
what  I  am  doing ;  I  have  thought  of  it  searchingly  and 
seriously,  and  I  beg  you  to  say  yes." 

He  paused.     Still  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Of  course  I  do  not  ask  you  to  separate  yourself 
from  your  mother,"  he  went  on,  his  eyes  dropping  for 
the  moment  to  the  brim  of  his  hat,  which  he  held  in 
his  hand;  "  I  shall  be  glad  if  she  will  always  make  her 
home  with  us." 

Then  she  did  speak.  And  as  her  words  came  forth, 
the  red  rose  in  her  face  until  it  was  deeply  colored. 

"  With  what  an  effort  you  said  that !  But  you  will 
not  be  tried.  One  gray  hair  in  my  mother's  head  is 
worth  more  to  me,  Mr.  Noel,  than  anything  you  can 
offer." 

"  I  knew  before  I  began  that  this  would  be  the  point 
of  trouble  between  us,  Faith,"  he  answered.  "  I  can 
only  assure  you  that  she  will  find  in  me  always  a  most 
respectful  son." 

"  And  when  you  were  thinking  so  searchingly  and 
seriously,  it  was  this  that  you  thought  of — whether 
you  could  endure  her !  Do  you  suppose  that  I  do  not 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  183 

see  the  effort?  Do  you  suppose  I  would  ever  place 
my  mother  in  such  a  position  ?  Do  you  suppose  that 
you  are  of  any  consequence  beside  her,  or  that  anything 
in  this  world  weighs  in  my  mind  for  one  moment  com- 
pared with  her  happiness  ?" 

"  We  can  make  her  happy  ;  I  suppose  that.  And  I 
suppose  another  thing,  and  that  is  that  we  could  be 
•very  happy  ourselves  if  we  were  married." 

"  The  Western  girl,  the  girl  from  Tuscolee  !  The 
girl  who  thought  she  could  paint,  and  could  not !  The 
girl  who  knew  so  little  of  social  rules  that  she  made 
a  fool  of  herself  every  time  she  saw  you  !" 

"  All  this  is  of  no  consequence,  since  it  is  the  girl  I 
love,"  answered  Noel. 

"  You  do  not.  It  is  a  lie.  Oh,  of  course,  a  very 
unselfish  and  noble  one ;  but  a  lie,  all  the  same.  You 
have  thought  of  it  seriously  and  searchingly  ?  Yes, 
but  only  for  the  last  fourteen  days !  I  understand 
it  all  now.  At  first  I  did  not,  I  was  confused ;  but 
now  I  see  the  whole.  You  were  not  unconscious  out 
there  on  the  Campagna ;  you  heard  what  I  said  when  I 
thought  you  were  dying,  or  dead.  And  so  you  come 
— come  very  generously  and  self-sacrificingly,  I  acknowl- 
edge that — and  ask  me  to  be  your  wife."  She  rose ; 
her  eyes  were  brilliant  as  she  faced  him.  "I  might 
tell  you  that  it  was  only  the  excitement,  that  I  did  not 
know  or  mean  what  I  was  saying ;  I  might  tell  you  that 
I  did  not  know  that  I  had  said  anything.  But  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  will  not,  like  you,  tell  a  lie,  even  for  a  good 
purpose.  I  did  love  you  ;  there,  you  have  it !  I  have 
loved  you  for  a  long  time,  to  my  sorrow  and  shame. 
For  I  do  not  respect  you  or  admire  you  ;  you  have  been 
completely  spoiled,  and  will  always  remain  so.  I  shall 


184  THE    STREET    OP   THE    HYACINTH 

make  it  the  one  purpose  of  my  life  from  this  moment 
to  overcome  the  feeling  I  have  had  for  you  ;  and  I 
shall  succeed.  Nothing  could  make  me  marry  you, 
though  you  should  ask  me  a  thousand  times." 

"  I  shall  ask  but  once,"  said  Noel.  He  had  risen 
also;  and,  as  he  did,  he  remembered  the  time  when 
they  had  stood  in  the  same  place  and  position,  facing 
each  other,  and  she  had  told  him  that  she  was  at  his 
feet.  "  I  did  hear  what  you  said.  And  it  is  of  that  I 
have  been  seriously  thinking  during  the  days  of  my 
confinement  to  the  house.  It  is  also  true  that  it  is 
what  you  said  which  has  brought  me  here  to-day. 
But  the  reason  is  that  it  has  become  precious  to  me — 
this  knowledge  that  you  love  me.  As  I  said  before,  in 
cue  way  I  have  always  done  you  justice,  and  it  is  that 
way  which  makes  me  realize  to  the  full  now  what 
such  a  love  as  yours  would  be  to  me.  If  it  is  true  that 
I  am  spoiled,  as  you  say  I  am,  a  love  like  yours  would 
make  be  better,  if  anything  can."  He  paused.  "  I 
have  not  said  much  about  my  own  feelings,"  he  added ; 
"  I  know  you  will  not  credit  me  with  having  any.  But 
I  think  I  have.  I  think  that  I  love  you." 

"  It  is  of  little  moment  to  me  whether  you  do  or 
not." 

"You  are  making  a  mistake,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
during  which  their  eyes  had  met  in  silence. 

"  The  mistake  would  be  to  consent." 

She  had  now  recovered  her  self-possession.  She 
even  smiled  a  little. 

"Imagine  Mr.  Raymond  Noel  in  the  street  of  the 
Hyacinth  !"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  I  should  hardly  wish  to  live  here ;  and  my 
wife  would  naturally  be  with  me." 


THE    STREET    OP   THE    HYACINTH  185 

"  I  hope  so.  And  I  hope  she  will  be  very  charming 
and  obedient  and  sweet."  Then  she  dropped  her 
sarcasms,  and  held  out  her  hand  in  farewell.  "  There 
is  no  use  in  prolonging  this,  Mr.  Noel.  Do  not  think, 
however,  that  I  do  not  appreciate  your  action ;  I  do 
appreciate  it.  I  said  that  I  did  not  respect  you,  and  I 
have  not  until  now ;  but  now  I  do.  You  will  under- 
stand, of  course,  that  I  would  rather  not  see  you  again, 
and  refrain  from  seeking  rne.  Go  your  Avay,  and  for- 
get me ;  you  can  do  so  now  with  a  clear  conscience, 
for  you  have  behaved  well." 

"  It  is  not  very  likely  that  I  shall  forget  you,"  an- 
swered Noel,  "  although  I  go  my  way.  I  see  you  are 
firmly  resolved.  For  the  present,  therefore,  all  I  can 
do  is  to  go." 

They  shook  hands,  and  he  left  her.  As  he  passed 
through  the  small  hall  on  his  way  to  the  outer  door 
he  met  Mrs.  Spurr ;  she  was  attired  as  opulently,  in  re- 
spect to  colors,  as  ever,  and  she  returned  his  greeting 
with  much  cordiality.  He  glanced  back ;  Miss  Macks 
had  witnessed  the  meeting  through  the  parlor  door. 
Her  color  had  faded ;  she  looked  sad  and  pale. 

She  kept  her  word ;  she  did  not  see  him  again.  If 
he  went  to  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth,  as  he  did  two 
or  three  times,  the  little  maid  presented  him  with  the 
Italian  equivalent  of  "  begs  to  be  excused,"  which  was 
evidently  a  standing  order.  If  he  wrote  to  her,  as  he 
did  more  than  two  or  three  times,  she  returned  what 
he  wrote,  not  unread,  but  without  answer.  He  thought 
perhaps  he  should  meet  her,  and  was  at  some  pains  to 
find  out  her  various  engagements.  But  all  was  in  vain  ; 
the  days  passed,  and  she  remained  invisible.  Towards 
the  last  of  May  he  left  Rome.  After  leaving,  he  con- 


186  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

tinued  to  write  to  her,  but  he  gave  no  address  for  reply  ; 
she  would  now  be  obliged  either  to  burn  his  letters 
or  keep  them,  since  she  could  no  longer  send  them 
back.  They  could  not  have  been  called  -love-letters ; 
they  were  friendly  epistles,  not  long — pleasant,  easy, 
sometimes  amusing,  like  his  own  conversation.  They 
came  once  a  week.  In  addition  he  sent  new  books, 
and  occasionally  some  other  small  remembrance. 

In  early  September  of  that  year  there  came  to  the 
street  of  the  Hyacinth  a  letter  from  America.  It  was 
from  one  of  Mrs.  Spurr's  old  neighbors  at  Tuscolee, 
and  she  wrote  to  say  that  John  Macks  had  come  home 
— had  come  home  broken  in  health  and  spirits,  and,  as 
he  himself  said,  to  die.  He  did  not  wish  his  mother  to 
know ;  she  could  not  come  to  him,  and  it  would  only 
distress  her.  He  had  money  enough  for  the  short  time 
that  was  left  him,  and  when  she  heard  it  would  be  only 
that  he  had  passed  away ;  he  had  passed  from  her  life 
in  reality  years  before.  In  this  John  Macks  was  sin- 
cere. He  had  been  a  ne'er-do-well,  a  rolling  stone ;  he 
had  not  been  a  dutiful  son.  The  only  good  that  could 
be  said  of  him,  as  far  as  his  mother  was  concerned,  was 
contained  in  the  fact  that  he  had  not  made  demands 
upon  her  small  purse  since  the  sura  he  took  from  her 
when  he  first  went  away.  He  had  written  to  her  at  in- 
tervals, briefly.  His  last  letter  had  come  eight  months 
before. 

But  the  Tuscolee  neighbor  was  a  mother  herself,  and, 
doing  as  she  would  be  done  by,  she  wrote  to  Rome. 
AVhen  her  letter  came  Mrs.  Spurr  was  overwhelmed 
with  grief ;  but  she  was  also  stirred  to  an  energy  and 
determination  which  she  had  never  shown  before.  For 
the  first  time  in  years  she  took  the  leadership,  put  her 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  187 

daughter  decisively  back  into  a  subordinate  place,  and 
assumed  the  control.  She  would  go  to  America.  She 
must  see  her  boy  (the  dearest  child  of  the  two,  as  the 
prodigal  always  is)  again.  But  even  while  she  was 
planning  her  journey  illness  seized  her — her  old  rheu- 
matic troubles,  only  more  serious  than  before ;  it  was 
plain  that  she  could  not  go.  She  then  required  that 
her  daughter  should  go  in  her  place — go  and  bring 
her  boy  to  Rome ;  this  soft  Italian  air  would  give  new 
life  to  his  lungs.  Oh,  she  should  not  die !  Ettie 
need  not  be  afraid  of  that.  She  would  live  for  years 
just  to  get  one  look  at  him  !  And  so  it  ended  in  the 
daughter's  departure,  an  efficient  nurse  being  left  in 
charge;  the  physician  said  that  although  Mrs.  Spurr 
would  probably  be  crippled,  she  was  in  no  danger  other- 
wise. 

Miss  Macks  left  Rome  on  the  15th  of  September. 
On  the  2d  of  December  she  again  beheld  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's  rising  in  the  blue  sky.  She  saw  it  alone. 
John  Macks  had  lived  three  weeks  after  her  arrival  at 
Tuscolee,  and  those  three  weeks  were  the  calmest  and 
the  happiest  of  his  unsuccessful — unworthy  it  may  be 
— but  also  bitterly  unhappy  life.  His  sister  did  not 
judge  him.  She  kissed  him  good-bye  as  he  lost  con- 
sciousness, and  soon  afterwards  closed  his  eyes  tenderly, 
with  tears  in  her  own.  Although  he  was  her  brother, 
she  had  never  known  him ;  he  went  away  when  she 
was  a  child.  She  sat  beside  him  a  long  time  after  he 
was  dead,  watching  the  strange,  youthful  peace  come 
back  to  his  worn  face. 

When  she  reached  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth  a 
carriage  was  before  the  door ;  carriages  of  that  sort  were 
not  often  required  by  the  dwellers  on  the  floors  below 


188  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

their  own,  and  she  was  rather  surprised.  She  had 
heard  from  her  mother  in  London,  the  nurse  acting  as 
amanuensis ;  at  that  time  Mrs.  Spurr  was  comfortable, 
although  still  confined  to  her  bed  most  of  the  day.  As 
she  was  paying  her  driver  she  heard  steps  on  the  stair- 
way within.  Then  she  beheld  this:  The  nurse,  carry- 
ing a  pillow  and  shawls;  next,  her  mother,  in  an  invalid- 
chair,  borne  by  two  men ;  and  last,  Raymond  Noel. 

When  Mrs.  Spurr  saw  her  daughter  she  began  to 
cry.  She  had  not  expected  her  until  the  next  day. 
Her  emotion  was  so  great  that  the  drive  was  given  up, 
and  she  was  carried  back  to  her  room.  Noel  did  not 
follow  her;  he  shook  hands  with  the  new-comer,  said 
that  he  would  not  detain  her,  and  then,  lifting  his  hat, 
he  stepped  into  the  carriage  which  was  waiting  and  was 
driven  away. 

For  two  days  Mrs.  Spurr  wished  for  nothing  but  to 
hear,  over  and  over  again,  every  detail  of  her  boy's  last 
hours.  Then  the  excitement  and  renewed  grief  made 
her  dangerously  ill.  After  ten  days  she  began  to  im- 
prove ;  but  two  weeks  passed  before  she  came  back  to 
the  present  sufficiently  to  describe  to  her  daughter  all 
"  Mr.  No-ul's  kind  attentions."  He  had  returned  to 
Eome  the  first  of  October,  and  had  come  at  once  to  the- 
street  of  the  Hyacinth.  Learning  what  had  happened, 
he  had  devoted  himself  to  her  "  most  as  if  he  was  my 
real  son,  Ettie,  I  do  declare !  Of  course,  he  couldn't 
never  be  like  my  own  darling  boy,"  continued  the  poor 
mother,  overlooking  entirely,  with  a  mother's  sublime 
forgetfulness,  the  small  amount  of  devotion  her  boy  had 
ever  bestowed ;  "  but  he's  just  done  everything  he 
could,  and  there's  no  denying  that." 

"  He  has  not  been  mentioned  in  your  letters,  mother." 


THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH  189 

"  Well,  child,  I  just  told  Mrs.  Bowler  not  to.  For 
he  said  himself,  frankly,  that  you  might  not  like  it;  but 
that  he'd  make  his  peace  with  you  when  vou  come 
back.  I  let  him  have  his  way  about  it,  and  I  have  en- 
joyed seeing  him.  He's  the  only  person  I've  seen  but 
Mrs.  Bowler  and  the  doctor,  and  I'm  mortal  tired  of 
both." 

During  Mrs.  Spurr's  second  illness  Noel  had  not 
come  in  person  to  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth  ;  he  had 
sent  to  inquire,  and  fruits  and  flowers  came  in  his 
name.  Miss  Macks  learned  that  these  had  come  from 
the  beginning. 

When  three  weeks  had  passed  Mrs.  Spurr  was  back 
in  her  former  place  as  regarded  health.  One  of  her 
first  requests  \vas  to  be  taken  out  to  drive ;  during 
her  daughter's  absence  Mr.  Noel  had  taken  her  five 
times,  and  she  had  greatly  enjoyed  the  change.  It  was 
not  so  simple  a  matter  for  the  daughter  as  it  had  been 
for  Mr.  Noel;  her  purse  was  almost  empty;  the  long 
journeys  and  her  mother's  illness  had  exhausted  her 
store.  Still  she  did  it.  Mrs.  Spurr  wished  to  go  to 
the  Pincio.  Her  daughter  thought  the  crowd  there 
would  be  an  objection. 

"  It  didn't  tire  me  one  bit  when  Mr.  No-ul  took  me," 
said  Mrs.  Spurr,  in  an  aggrieved  tone ;  "  and  we  went 
there  every  single  time — just  as  soon  as  he  found  out 
that  I  liked  it.  What  a  lot  of  folks  he  does  know,  to 
be  sure !  They  kept  him  a-bowing  every  minute." 

The  day  after  this  drive  Mr.  Noel  came  to  the  street 
of  the  Hyacinth.  He  saw  Miss  Macks.  Her  manner 
was  quiet,  a  little  distant ;  but  she  thanked  him,  with 
careful  acknowledgment  of  every  item,  for  his  kind  at- 
tentions to  her  mother.  He  said  little.  After  learn- 


190  THE    STKEET    OF   THE    HYACINTH 

ing  that  Mrs.  Spurr  was  much  better  he  spoke  of  her 
own  health. 

"  You  have  had  two  long,  fatiguing  journeys,  and  you 
have  been  acting  as  nurse ;  it  would  be  well  for  you  to 
give  yourself  entire  rest  for  several  weeks  at  least." 

She  replied,  coldly,  that  she  was  perfectly  well,  and 
turned  the  conversation  to  subjects  less  personal.  He 
did  not  stay  long.  As  he  rose  to  take  leave,  he  said  : 

"  You  will  let  me  come  again,  I  hope  ?  You  will  not 
repeat  the  '  not  at  home '  of  last  spring  ?" 

"  I  would  really  much  rather  not  see  you,  Mr.  Noel," 
she  answered,  after  hesitating. 

"  I  am  sorry.  But  of  course  I  must  submit."  Then 
he  went  away. 

Miss  Macks  now  resumed  her  burdens.  She  was 
obliged  to  take  more  pupils  than  she  had  ever  accepted 
before,  and  to  work  harder.  She  had  not  only  to  sup- 
port their  little  household,  but  there  were  now  debts  to 
pay.  She  was  out  almost  the  whole  of  every  day. 

After  she  had  entered  upon  her  winter's  work  Ray- 
mond Noel  began  to  come  again  to  the  street  of  the 
Hyacinth.  But  he  did  not  come  to  sec  her;  his  visits 
were  to  her  mother.  He  came  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  and  always  during  the  hours  when  the  daughter 
was  absent.  He  sat  and  talked  to  Mrs.  Spurr,  or 
rather  listened  to  her,  in  a  way  that  greatly  cheered 
that  lady's  monotonous  days.  She  told  him  her  whole 
history;  she  minutely  described  Tuscolee  and  its  so- 
ciety ;  and,  finally,  he  heard  the  whole  story  of  "  John." 
In  addition,  he  sent  her  various  little  delicacies,  taking 
pains  to  find  something  she  had  not  had. 

Miss  Macks  would  have  put  an  end  to  this  if  she  had 
known  how.  But  certainly  Mr.  Noel  was  not  troub- 


THE    STREET    OF   THE    HYACINTH  191 

ling  Aer,  and  Mrs.  Spnrr  resented  any  attempt  at  inter- 
ference. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  object,  Ettie.  He 
seems  to  like  to  come,  and  there's  but  few  pleasures 
left  to  me,  I'm  sure  !  You  oughtn't  to  grudge  them  !" 

In  this  way  two  months  passed,  Noel  continuing  his 
visits,  and  Miss  Macks  continuing  her  lessons.  She 
was  working  very  hard.  She  now  looked  not  only  pale, 

but  much  worn.     Count  L ,  who   had  been  long 

absent,  returned  to  Rome  about  this  time.  He  saw  her 
one  day,  although  she  did  not  see  him.  The  result  of 
this  vision  of  her  was  that  he  went  down  to  Naples, 
and,  before  long,  the  desirable  second  cousin  with  the 
fortune  was  the  sister  of  the  Princess  C . 

One  afternoon  in  March  Miss  Macks  was  coming 
home  from  the  broad,  new,  tiresome  piazza  Indipen- 
denza;  the  distance  was  long,  and  she  walked  with 
weariness.  As  she  drew  near  the  dome  of  the  Pan- 
theon she  met  Raymond  Noel.  He  stopped,  turned, 
and  accompanied  her  homeward.  She  had  three  books. 

"  Give  them  to  me,"  he  said,  briefly,  taking  them 
from  her. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  heard  to-day?"  he  went 
on.  "  They  are  going  to  tear  down  your  street  of  the 
Hyacinth.  The  Government  has  at  last  awakened  to 
the  shame  of  allowing  all  those  modern  accretions  to 
disfigure  longer  the  magnificent  old  Pagan  temple.  All 
the  streets  in  the  rear,  up  to  a  certain  point,  are  to  be 
destroyed.  And  the  street  of  the  Hyacinth  goes  first. 
You  will  be  driven  out." 

"  I  presume  we  can  find  another  like  it." 

He  went  on  talking  about  the  Pantheon  until  they 
entered  the  doomed  street;  it  was  as  obstinately  nar- 


192  THE    STREET    OF    THE    HYACINTH 

row  and  dark  as  ever.  Then  lie  dropped  his  Pagan 
temple. 

"  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  treat  me  in  this 
way,  Faith  ?"  he  said.  "  You  make  me  very  unhappy. 
You  are  wearing  yourself  out,  and  it  troubles  me  greatly. 
If  you  should  fall  ill  I  think  that  would  be  the  end.  I 
should  then  take  matters  into  my  own  hands,  and  I 
don't  believe  you  would  be  able  to  keep  me  off.  But 
why  should  we  wait  for  illness  ?  It  is  too  great  a  risk." 

They  were  approaching  her  door.  She  said  nothing, 
only  hastened  her  steps. 

"  I  have  been  doing  my  best  to  convince  you,  with- 
out annoying  you,  that  you  were  mistaken  about  me. 
And  the  reason  I  have  been  doing  it  is  that  I  am  con- 
vinced myself.  If  I  was  not  entirely  sure  last  spring 
that  I  loved  you,  I  certainly  am  sure  now.  I  spent  the 
summer  thinking  of  it.  I  know  now,  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  a  doubt,  that  I  love  you  above  all  and  every- 
thing. There  is  no  '  duty  '  or  '  generosity '  in  this,  but 
simply  my  own  feelings.  I  could  perfectly  well  have 
let  the  matter  drop ;  you  gave  me  every  opportunity  to 
do  so.  That  I  have  not  done  it  should  show  you — a 
good  deal.  For  I  am  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroes 
are  made.  I  should  not  be  here  unless  I  wanted  to ; 
my  motive  is  the  selfish  one  of  my  own  happiness." 

They  had  entered  the  dark  hallway. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  morning  when  you  stood 
here,  with  two  tears  in  your  eyes,  saying  '  Never  mind ; 
you  will  come  another  time  '  ?"  (Here  the  cobbler  came 
down  the  stairs.)  "  Why  not  let  the  demolition  of  the 
street  of  the  Hyacinth  be  the  crisis  of  our  fate  ?"  he 
went  on,  returning  the  cobbler's  bow.  (Here  the  cob- 
bler departed.)  "  If  you  refuse,  I  shall  not  give  you 


THE    STREET   OF    THE    HYACINTH  193 

up  ;  I  shall  go  on  in  the  same  way.  But  —  haven't  I 
been  tried  long  enough  ?" 

"  You  have  not,"  she  answered.  "  But,  unless  you 
will  leave  Rome,  and  —  me,  I  cannot  bear  it  longer." 

It  was  a  great  downfall,  of  course  ;  Noel  always 
maintained  that  it  was. 

"  But  the  heights  upon  which  you  had  placed  your- 
self, my  dear,  were  too  superhuman,"  he  said,  excus- 


The  street  of  the  Hyacinth  experienced  a  great  down- 
fall, also.  During  the  summer  it  was  demolished. 

Before  its  demolition  Mrs.  Lawrence,  after  three  long 
breaths  of  astonishment,  had  come  to  offer  her  con- 
gratulations —  in  a  new  direction  this  time. 

"  It  is  the  most  fortunate  thing  in  the  world,"  she 
said  to  everybody,  "that  Mrs.  Spurr  is  now  confined  to 
her  bed  for  life,  and  is  obliged  to  wear  mourning." 

But  Mrs.  Spurr  is  not  confined  to  her  bed  ;  she  drives 
out  with  her  daughter  whenever  the  weather  is  favor- 
able. She  wears  black,  but  is  now  beginning  to  vary 
it  with  purple  and  lavender. 


A  CHRISTMAS  PARTY 

IN  188-  the  American  Consul  at  Venice  was  occu- 
pying the  second  story  of  an  old  palace  on  the  Grand 
Canal.  It  was  the  story  which  is  called  by  Italians  the 
piano  nobile,  or  noble  floor.  Beneath  this  piano  nobile 
there  is  a  large  low  ground,  or  rather  water,  floor,  whose 
stone  pavement,  only  slightly  above  the  level  of  the 
canal  outside,  is  always  damp  and  often  wet.  At  the 
time  of  the  Consul's  residence  this  water-floor  was  held 
by  another  tenant,  a  dealer  in  antiquities,  who  had  par- 
titioned off  a  shallow  space  across  its  broad  front  for  a 
show-room.  As  this  dealer  had  the  ground-floor,  he 
possessed,  of  course,  the  principal  entrance  of  the  pal- 
ace, with  its  broad  marble  steps  descending  into  the 
rippling  wavelets  of  the  splendid  azure  street  outside, 
and  with  the  tall,  slender  poles,  irregularly  placed  in 
the  water,  which  bore  testimony  to  the  aristocracy  of 
the  venerable  pile  they  guarded.  One  could  say  that 
these  blue  wands,  ornamented  with  heraldic  devices, 
were  like  the  spears  of  knights ;  this  is  what  Miss 
Senter  said.  Or  one  could  notice  their  strong  resem- 
blance to  barbers'  poles ;  and  this  was  what  Peter  Sen- 
ter always  mentioned. 

Peter  Senter  was  the  American  Consul,  and  his  sister 
Barbara  was  the  Consuless ;  for  she  kept  house  for  her 
brother,  who  was  a  bachelor.  And  she  not  only  kept 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  195 

house  for  liirn,  but  she  assisted  him  in  other  ways, 
owing  to  her  knowledge  of  Italian.  The  Consul,  a  man 
of  fifty-seven,  spoke  only  the  language  of  his  native 
place — Rochester,  New  York.  That  he  could  not  under- 
stand the  speech  (gibberish,  he  called  it)  of  the  people 
with  whom  he  was  supposed  to  hold  official  relations 
did  not  disturb  him ;  he  thought  it  patriotic  not  to  un- 
derstand. There  was  a  vice  -  consul,  an  Italian,  who 
could  attend  to  the  business  matters ;  and  as  for  the 
rest,  wasn't  Barbara  there — Barbara,  who  could  chat- 
ter not  only  in  Italian,  but  in  French  and  German  also, 
with  true  feminine  glibness  ?  (For  Peter,  in  his  heart, 
thought  it  uumasculine  to  have  a  polyglot  tongue.)  He 
knew  how  well  his  sister  could  speak,  because  he  had 
paid  her  bills  during  the  six  years  of  her  education 
abroad.  These  bills  had  been  large ;  of  course,  there- 
fore, the  knowledge  must  be  large  as  well. 

Miss  Senter  was  always  chronically  annoyed  that  she 
and  her  brother  did  not  possess  the  state  entrance.  As 
the  palace  was  at  present  divided,  the  tenants  of  the  no- 
ble floor  descended  by  an  outside  stairway  to  a  large 
inner  court,  and  from  this  court  opened  the  second  wa- 
ter-door. Their  staircase  was  a  graceful  construction 
of  white  marble,  and  the  court,  with  the  blue  sky  above, 
one  or  two  fretted  balconies,  and  a  sculptured  marble 
well-curb  in  the  centre,  was  highly  picturesque.  But 
this  did  not  reconcile  the  American  lady  to  the  fact 
that  their  door  was  at  the  side  of  the  palace ;  she 
thought  that  by  right  the  gondola  of  the  Consul  should 
lie  among  the  heraldic  poles  on  the  Grand  Canal.  But, 
in  spite  of  right,  nothing  could  be  done  ;  the  antiquity- 
dealer  held  his  premises  on  a  long  lease.  Miss  Seuter, 
therefore,  disliked  the  dealer. 


196  A   CHRISTMAS    PAKTY 

Her  dislike,  however,  had  not  prevented  her  from 
paying  a  visit  to  his  establishment  soon  after  she  had 
taken  possession  of  the  high-ceilinged  rooms  above. 
For  she  was  curious  about  the  old  palace,  and  wished  to 
see  every  inch  of  it ;  if  there  had  been  cellars,  she  would 
have  gone  down  to  inspect  them,  and  she  was  fully  de- 
termined to  walk  "all  over  the  roof."  The  dealer's 
name  was  Pelham — "  Z.  Pelham  "  was  inscribed  on  his 
sign.  How  he  came  by  this  English  title  no  one  but 
himself  could  have  told.  He  was  supposed  to  be  either 
a  Pole  or  an  Armenian,  and  he  spoke  many  languages 
with  equal  fluency  and  incorrectness.  He  appeared  to 
have  feeble  health,  and  he  always  wore  large  arctic  over- 
shoes ;  he  was  short  and  thin,  and  the  most  noticeable 
expression  of  his  plain,  small  face  was  resignation. 
Z.  Pelham  conducted  the  Consuless  through  the  dusky 
space  behind  his  show-room,  a  vast,  low,  open  hall  with 
massive  squat  columns  and  arches,  and  the  skeletons  of 
two  old  gondolas  decaying  in  a  corner.  At  the  back  he 
opened  a  small  door,  and  pointed  out  a  flight  of  stone 
steps  going  up  steeply  in  a  spiral,  enclosed  in  a  circular 
shaft  like  a  round  tower.  "  It  leads  to  the  attic  floor. 
Her  Excellency  wishes  to  mount  ?"  he  inquired,  patient- 
ly. For,  owing  to  the  wares  in  which  he  dealt,  he  had 
had  a  large  acquaintance  with  eccentric  characters  of 
all  nations. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Miss  Senter.  "Carmela,  you 
can  stay  belo.w,  if  you  like,"  she  said  to  the  servant 
who  accompanied  her. 

But  no ;  Carmela  also  wished  to  mount.  Z.  Pelham 
preceded  them,  therefore,  carrying  his  small  oil -lamp. 
They  went  slowly,  for  the  steps  were  narrow,  the  spiral 
sharp.  The  attic,  when  they  reached  it,  was  a  queer, 


A    CHRISTMAS   PAKTY  197 

ghostly  place ;  but  there  was  a  skylight  with  a  ladder, 
and  the  Consuless  carried  out  her  intention  of  traversino- 

O 

the  roof,  while  Mr.  Pelham  waited  calmly,  seated  on  the 
open  scuttle  door.  Carraela  followed  her  mistress.  She 
gave  little  cries  of  admiration ;  there  never  were  such 
wonderful  ladies  anywhere  as  those  of  America,  she  de- 
clared. On  the  way  down,  the  stairs  were  so  much  like 
a  corkscrew  that  Miss  Senter,  feeling  dizzy,  was  obliged 
to  pause  for  a  moment  where  there  was  a  landing. 
"Isn't  there  a  secret  chamber?"  she  demanded  of  the 
dealer. 

Z.  Pelham  shook  his  head.    "  I  have  not  one  found." 

"  Try  again,"  said  Miss  Senter,  laughing.  "  I'll  make 
it  worth  your  while,  Mr.  Pelham." 

Z.  Pelham  surveyed  the  walls,  as  if  to  see  where  he 
could  have  one  built.  His  eye  passed  over  a  crack,  and, 
raising  his  lamp,  he  showed  it  to  the  Consuless.  "  One 
time  was  there  a  door,  opening  into  the  rooms  of  her 
Excellency.  But  it  opens  not  ever  now ;  it  is  covered 
on  inside." 

"  Oh,  that  isn't  a  secret  chamber,"  answered  Miss 
Senter ;  "  we  have  doors  that  have  been  shut  up  at 
home.  What  I  want  is  something  mysterious — behind 
a  picture,  or  a  sliding  panel." 

Partly  in  return  for  this  expedition  to  the  roof,  and 
partly  because  she  had  a  liking  for  wood-carvings,  Miss 
Senter  purchased  from  Mr.  Pelham,  shortly  afterwards, 
his  best  antique  cabinet.  It  was  eight  feet  high,  and 
its  whole  surface  was  beautifully  sculptured  in  odd  de- 
signs, no  two  alike.  Within  were  many  ingenious  re- 
ceptacles, and,  better  than  these,  a  concealed  drawer. 
"  You  see  I  have  my  secret  chamber,  after  all,"  said  the 
Consuless,  making  a  joke.  And  there  was  a  best  even 


198  A    CHRISTMAS    TARTY 

to  this  better ;  for  after  the  cabinet  had  been  placed  in 
her  own  room,  Miss  Senter  discovered  within  it  a  sec- 
ond hiding-place,  even  more  perfectly  concealed  than 
the  first.  This  was  delightful,  and  she  confided  to  its 
care  all  her  loose  money.  She  thought  with  disgust  of 
the  ugly  green  safe,  built  into  the  wall  of  Peter's  Roch- 
ester house,  where  she  was  obliged  to  keep  her  gold 
and  silver  when  at  home.  Not  only  was  Miss  Senter's 
own  room  in  the  old  palace  handsomely  furnished,  but 
all  the  others  belonging  to  the  apartment  were  rich  in 
beautiful  things.  The  Consuless  had  used  her  own 
taste,  which  was  great,  and  her  brother's  fortune,  which 
was  greater,  deferring  to  him  only  on  one  point — name- 
ly, warmth.  In  Peter's  mind  the  temperature  of  his 
Rochester  house  remained  a  fixed  standard,  and  his 
sister  therefore  provided  in  every  room  a  place  for  a 
generous  open  fire,  while  in  the  great  drawing-room,  in 
addition  to  this  fire,  two  large  white  Vienna  stoves,  like 
monuments,  were  set  up,  hidden  behind  screens.  As 
this  salon  was  eighty  feet  long  and  thirty  feet  high,  it 
required  all  this  if  it  was  to  be  used — used  by  Peter,  at 
least  —  in  December,  January,  and  February;  for  the 
Venetian  winter,  though  short,  is  often  sharp  and  raw. 
On  Christmas  Eve  of  their  third  year  in  Venice  this 
drawing  -  room  was  lighted  for  a  party.  At  one  end, 
concealed  by  a  curtain,  stood  a  Christmas  -  tree ;  for 
there  were  thirty  children  among  their  invited  guests, 
who  would  number  in  all  over  fifty.  After  the  tree  had 
bestowed  its  fruit  the  children  were  to  have  a  dance, 
and  an  odd  little  projection  like  a  very  narrow  balcony 
high  on  the  wall  was  to  be  occupied  by  five  musicians. 
These  musicians  would  have  been  much  more  comfort- 
able below.  But  Miss  Senter  was  sure  that  this  shelf 


A   CHRISTMAS    PARTY  199 

•was  intended  for  musicians ;  her  musicians,  therefore, 
were  to  sit  there,  though  their  knees  would  be  well 
squeezed  between  the  wall  and  the  balustrade.  Fifteen 
minutes  before  the  appointed  hour,  which  was  an  early 
one  on  account  of  the  children,  the  Consulcss  appeared. 
She  found  her  brother  standing  before  the  fire,  survey- 
ing the  room,  with  his  hands  behind  him. 

"  Doesn't  it  look  pretty  ?"  said  the  sister,  with  pride  ; 
for  she  had  a  great  faith  in  all  her  pots  and  pans,  carv- 
ings and  tapestries.  Any  one,  however,  could  have  had 
faith  in  the  chandeliers  of  Venetian  glass,  from  which 
came  the  soft  radiance  of  hundreds  of  wax  candles, 
lighting  up  the  ancient  gilding  of  the  ceiling. 

"  Well,  Early,  you  know  that  personally  I  don't  care 
much  for  all  these  second-hand  articles  you  have  col- 
lected," replied  Peter.  "And  you  haven't  got  the  room 
very  warm,  after  all — only  60°.  However,  I  can  stand 
it  if  the  supper  is  all  right — plenty  of  it,  and  the  hot 
things  really  hot ;  not  lukewarm,  you  know." 

"  We  can  trust  Giorgio.  But  I'll  go  and  have  a  final 
word  with  him,  if  you  like,"  answered  Miss  Senter, 
crossing  the  beautiful  salon,  her  train  sweeping  over 
the  floor  behind  her.  The  Consuless  was  no  longer 
young  (the  days  when  Peter  had  paid  those  school  bills 
were  now  far  distant),  and  she  had  never  been  hand- 
some. But  she  was  tall  and  slender,  with  pretty  hands 
and  feet,  a  pleasant  expression  in  her  blue  eyes,  and 
soft  brown  hair,  now  heavily  tinged  with  silver.  Her 
brother's  use  of  "Barly"  was  a  grief  to  her.  She  had 
tried  to  lead  him  towards  the  habit  of  calling  her  Barbe, 
the  French  form  of  Barbara,  if  nickname  he  must  have. 
But  he  pronounced  this  Bob,  and  that  was  worse  than 
the  other. 


200  A,   CHRISTMAS    TARTY 

On  her  way  towards  the  kitchen  the  Consuless  came 
upon  Carmela.  Carmela  was  the  servant  who  had  the 
general  oversight  of  everything  excepting  the  cooking. 
For  Giorgio,  the  cook,  allowed  no  interference  in  his 
department ;  in  the  kitchen  he  must  be  Caesar  or  noth- 
ing. Carmela  was  not  the  house-keeper,  for  Miss  Senter 
herself  was  the  house-keeper.  But  the  American  would 
have  found  her  task  twenty  times,  fifty  times  more  dif- 
ficult if  she  had  not  had  this  skilful  little  deputy  to  car- 
ry out  all  her  orders.  Carmela  was  said  to  be  middle- 
aged.  But  her  short,  slender  figure  was  so  erect,  her 
little  face  so  alert,  her  movements  were  so  brisk,  and 
her  small  black  eyes  so  bright,  that  she  seemed  full  of 
youthful  fire  ;  in  fact,  if  one  saw  only  her  back,  she 
looked  younger  than  Assunta  and  Beppa,  who  were  Ve- 
netian girls  of  twenty.  Carmela  was  always  attired  in 
the  French  fashion,  with  tight  corsets,  a  plain  black 
dress  fitting  like  a  glove  round  her  little  waist,  and  short 
enough  to  show  the  neat  shoes  on  her  small  feet ;  over 
this  black  dress  there  was  a  jaunty  white  apron  with 
pockets,  and  upon  her  beautifully  braided  shining  dark 
hair  was  perched  a  small  spotless  muslin  cap.  The 
younger  servants  asserted  that  the  slight  pink  tint  on 
the  tidy  little  woman's  cheeks  was  artificial.  However 
that  may  have  been,  Carmela,  as  she  stood,  was  the  per- 
sonification of  trimness  and  activity.  Untiring  and  en- 
ergetic, she  was  a  wonderful  worker  ;  Miss  Senter,  who 
had  been  much  in  Italy,  appreciated  her  good-fortune 
in  having  secured  for  her  Venetian  house-keeping  such 
a  coadjutor  as  this.  Carmela  was  scrupulously  neat, 
and  she  was  even  more  scrupulously  honest,  never  ab- 
stracting so  much  as  a  pin ;  she  economized  for  her 
mistress  with  her  whole  soul,  and  kept  watch  over  cv- 


A    CHRISTMAS    PAKTY  201 

ery  detail ;  she  told  the  truth,  she  swept  the  corners, 
she  dusted  under  everything ;  she  worked  conscien- 
tiously, in  one  way  and  another,  all  day  long.  Even 
Peter,  who  did  not  like  foreign  servants,  liked  Car- 
mela ;  he  said  she  was  "  so  spry  !" 

"  Is  everything  ready  ?"  inquired  Miss  Senter,  as  she 
met  her  deputy. 

"  Yes,  signorina,  everything,"  answered  Carmela, 
briskly.  She  was  looking  her  very  best  and  tightest, 
all  black  and  white,  with  black  silk  stockings  showing 
above  her  little  high-heeled  shoes.  As  she  spoke  she 
put  her  hands  in  their  black  lace  mitts  in  the  pockets  of 
her  apron,  and,  middle-aged  though  she  was  said  to  be, 
she  looked  at  that  moment  like  a  smart  French  soubrette 
of  the  stage. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  kitchen  to  have  a  word  with 
Giorgio,"  said  the  Consuless,  passing  on. 

"  If  the  signorina  permits,  I  carry  the  train,"  an- 
swered Carmela,  lifting  the  satin  folds  from  the  floor. 
Thus  they  went  on  together,  mistress  and  maid,  through 
various  rooms  and  corridors,  until  finally  the  kitchen  was 
reached.  It  was  a  large,  lofty  place,  brilliantly  lighted, 
for  Giorgio  was  old  and  needed  all  the  radiance  that 
could  be  obtained  to  aid  his  failing  sight.  He  was  a 
small  man  with  a  melancholy  countenance.  But  this 
melancholy  was  an  accident  of  expression  ;  in  reality, 
old  Giorgio  was  cheerful  and  amiable,  with  a  good  deal 
of  mild  wit.  He  was  the  most  skilful  cook  in  Venice. 
But  his  health  had  failed  some  years  before,  and  he  had 
now  very  little  strength  ;  the  Consul,  who  liked  good 
dinners,  paid  him  high  wages,  and  gave  him  a  young 
assistant. 

"  Well,  Giorgio,  all  promises  well,  I  trust  ?"  said  Miss 


202  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

Senter  as  she  entered,  her  steps  somewhat  impeded  by 
the  tightness  with  which  Carmela  held  back  her  train. 
"The  Consul  is  particular  about  having  the  hot  things 
really  hot,  and  constantly  renewed,  as  it  is  such  a  cold 
night.  The  three  men  from  Florian's  will  have  charge 
of  the  ices  and  the  other  cold  things,  and  will  do  all  that 
is  necessary  in  the  supper-room.  But  for  the  hot  dishes 
we  depend  upon  you." 

Giorgio,  who  was  dressed  entirely  in  white,  bowed 
and  waved  his  hand.  "  Mademoiselle  need  give  herself 
no  uneasiness,"  he  said  in  French.  For  Giorgio  had 
learned  his  art  in  Paris,  and  whenever  Carmela  was  pres- 
ent he  invariably  answered  his  mistress  in  the  language 
of  that  Northern  capital,  even  though  her  question  had 
been  couched  in  Italian  ;  it  was  one  of  his  ways — and 
he  had  but  few — of  standing  up,  as  it  were,  against  the 
indefatigable  little  deputy.  For,  clever  though  Carmela 
was,  she  had  never  been  out  of  her  native  land,  and 
could  speak  no  tongue  but  her  own. 

"  Are  you  feeling  well,  Giorgio?"  continued  Miss  Sen- 
ter. "  I  see  that  you  look  pale.  I  am  afraid  you  have 
been  doing  too  much.  Where  is  Luigi  ?"  (Luigi  was 
the  cook's  assistant.) 

"  He  has  gone  home  ;  ten  minutes  ago.  I  let  him 
go,  as  it  is  a  festival.  He  is  young,  and  we  can  be 
young  but  once.  Che  vuole !  In  addition,  all  was 
done." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Senter,  who  was  now  speakirtg 
French  also  ;  "  there  is  still  much  to  do,  and  it  was 
not  wise  to  let  Luigi  go.  You  are  certainly  very  tired, 
Giorgio." 

"  Let  not  mademoiselle  think  of  it,"  said  the  old  man, 
straightening  himself  a  little. 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  203 

"  But  I  shall  think  of  it,"  said  Miss  Senter,  kindly. 
"  Carmela,"  she  continued,  speaking  now  in  Italian,  "  go 
to  my  room  and  get  my  case  of  cordials." 

Carmela  divined  that  the  cordial  was  for  the  cook. 
"  And  the  signorina's  train  ?"  she  said.  "  Surely  I  can- 
not leave  it  on  this  dirty  floor !  Will  not  the  signoriua 
return  to  the  drawing-room  to  take  her  cordial  ?  Eh 
— it  is  not  for  her  ?  It  is  for  Giorgio  ?  A  man  ?  A 
man  to  be  faint  like  a  girl?  Ha,  ha !  it  makes  me  laugh  !" 

"  Go  and  get  it,"  repeated  Miss  Senter,  taking  the 
train  over  her  own  arm.  She  knew  that  Carmela  did 
not  like  the  cook.  Jealousy  was  the  one  fault  the  hard- 
working little  creature  possessed.  "  She  has  tried  to 
make  me  dismiss  Giorgio  more  than  once,"  she  said 
to  her  brother,  in  confidence  ;  "  but  I  always  pretend 
not  to  see  the  feeling  that  influences  her.  It  is  only 
Giorgio  she  is  jealous  of ;  she  gets  on  perfectly  well 
with  Luigi,  and  with  Assunta  and  Beppa  ;  while  for 
Ercole  she  can  never  do  enough.  She  is  devoted  to 
Ercole  !" 

Giorgio  had  not  taken  up  the  slur  cast  upon  his  im- 
maculate floor.  All  he  said  was,  "  Comme  elle  est  me- 
chante  /"  with  a  shrug. 

"Where  is  Ercole?"  said  Miss  Senter,  while  she  waited. 

"  He  is  dressing,"  answered  Giorgio.  "  He  makes 
himself  beautiful  for  the  occasion." 

Ercole  was  the  chief  gondolier — a  tall,  athletic  young 
man  of  thirty,  handsome  and  clever.  Miss  Senter  had 
chosen  Ercole  to  assist  her  with  the  Christmas-tree. 
The  second  gondolier,  Andrea,  was  to  be  stationed  at 
the  end  of  the  little  quay  or  riva  down  below,  outside 
of  their  own  water-door ;  for  here  on  the  small  canal 
were  the  steps  used  by  arriving  and  departing  gondo- 


204  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

las,  and  here  also  floated  the  handsome  gondola  of  the 
Consul,  with  its  American  flag.  The  two  gondoliers 
also  had  picturesque  costumes  of  white  (woollen  in 
winter,  linen  in  summer),  with  blue  collars,  blue  stock- 
ings, blue  caps,  and  long  fringed  red  sashes,  the  com- 
bination representing  the  American  national  colors. 
To  -  night  Ercole,  having  to  appear  in  the  drawing- 
room,  was  making  a  longer  stay  than  usual  before  his 
little  mirror. 

Carmela  returned  with  the  cordial-case.  "  Ah,  yes,  our 
cook  is  pale — pale  as  a  young  virgin  !"  she  commented, 
as  Miss  Senter,  unlocking  the  box,  poured  into  one  of 
the  little  glasses  it  contained  a  generous  portion  of  a 
restorative  whose  every  drop  was  costly. 

Giorgio,  taking  off  the  white  linen  cap  which  covered 
his  gray  hair,  made  a  bow,  and  then  drank  the  draught 
with  much  appreciation.  "  It  is  true  that  I  am  pale," 
he  remarked,  slyly,  in  Italian.  "  I  might,  perhaps,  try 
some  rouge  ?" 

And  then  the  Consuless,  to  avert  war,  hastily  bore  her 
deputy  away. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  guests  had  arrived  ;  they  in- 
cluded all  the  Americans  in  Venice,  with  a  sprinkling 
of  English,  Italians,  and  Russians.  The  grown  people 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  And  presently  they 
heard  singing.  Through  the  anterooms  came  the  chil- 
dren, entering  with  measured  step,  two  and  two,  led  by 
three  little  boys  in  Oriental  costumes.  These  three  boys 
were  singing  as  follows : 

"  We  three  Kings  of  Orient  are, 
Bearing  gifts  we've  travelled  from  far, 
Field  and  fountain,  moor  and  mountain, 
Following  yonder  star." 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  205 

Here,  from  the  high  top  branch  of  the  Christmas-tree 
which  rose  above  the  concealing  curtain,  blazed  out  a 
splendid  star.  And  then  all  the  procession  took  up  the 
chorus,  as  they  marched  onward  : 

"  Oh,  star  of  wonder, 

Star  of  might, 
Star  with  royal 
Beauty  bright !" 

Ercole,  who  was  behind  the  curtain,  now  drew  it 
aside,  and  there  stood  the  tree,  blazing  with  fairy- 
lamps  and  glittering  ornaments,  while  beneath  it  was 
a  mound  composed  entirely  of  toys.  The  children  be- 
haved well ;  they  kept  their  ranks  and  repeated  their 
carol,  as  they  had  been  told  to  do,  ranging  themselves 
meanwhile  in  a  half-circle  before  the  tree. 

"We  three  Kings  of  Orient  are," 

chanted  the  three  little  kings  a  second  time,  though 
their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  magnificent  box  of  sol- 
diers, with  tents  and  flags  and  cannon.  The  carol  fin- 
ished, Miss  Senter,  with  the  aid  of  her  gondolier,  dis- 
tributed the  toys  and  bonbons,  and  the  room  was  filled 
with  happy  glee.  When  Ercole  had  detached  the  last 
package  of  sweets  from  the  sparkling  branches  he  dis- 
appeared. His  next  duty  was  to  conduct  the  musicians 
up  to  their  cage. 

Miss  Senter  had  allowed  an  hour  for  the  inspection 
and  trial  of  the  toys  before  the  dancing  should  begin. 
It  was  none  too  much,  and  the  clamor  was  still  great  as 
this  hour  drew  towards  its  close,  so  great  that  she  her- 
self was  glad  that  the  end  was  near.  Looking  up  to  see 
whether  her  musicians  had  assembled  on  their  shelf,  she 


206  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

perceived  some  one  at  the  drawing-room  door  ;  it  was 
Carmela,  hiding  herself  modestly  behind  the  portiere, 
but  at  the  same  time  unmistakably  beckoning  to  her 
mistress  as  soon  as  she  saw  that  she  had  caught  her 
eye.  Miss  Senter  went  to  the  doorway. 

"  Will  the  signorina  permit  ?  A  surprise  of  Er- 
cole's,"  whispered  Carmela,  eagerly,  standing  on  tiptoe 
to  reach  her  mistress's  ear.  "  He  has  dressed  himself 
as  a  clown,  and  he  is  of  a  perfection  !  He  has  bells  on 
his  cap  and  his  elbows,  and  if  the  signorina  graciously 
allows,  he  will  come  in  to  amuse  the  children." 

"  A  clown  !"  answered  Miss  Senter,  hesitating.  "  I 
don't  know ;  he  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"  He  has  been  dancing  to  show  me.  And  oh  !  so 
beautifully,  with  bounds  and  leaps.  He  makes  of  him- 
self also  a  statue,"  pursued  Carmela. 

"  But  I  cannot  have  any  buffoonery  here,  you  know," 
said  Miss  Senter.  "  It  would  not  do." 

"  Buffoonery  !  Surely  the  signorina  knows  that  Er- 
cole  has  the  soul  of  a  gentleman,"  whispered  Carmela, 
reproachfully. 

And  it  was  true  that  Miss  Senter  had  always  thought 
that  her  chief  gondolier  possessed  a  great  deal  of  nat- 
ural refinement. 

"  Will  the  signorina  step  out  for  a  moment  and  look 
at  him  ?"  pursued  the  deputy,  her  whisper  now  a  little 
dejected.  "  If  he  is  to  be  disappointed,  poor  fellow, 
may  he  at  least  have  that  pleasure  ?" 

The  idea  of  the  gondolier's  disappointment  touched 
the  amiable  American.  She  turned  her  head  and 
glanced  into  the  drawing-room  ;  all  was  going  on  gayly  ; 
no  one  had  missed  her.  She  slipped  out  under  the  por- 
tiere, and  followed  Carmela  to  a  room  at  the  side. 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  207 

Here  stood  the  gondolier.  He  wore  the  usual  white 
dress  and  white  mask  of  a  clown,  and,  as  the  Consuless 
entered,  he  cut  a  splendid  caper,  ringing  all  his  bells. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  such  a  skilful  acrobat, 
Ercole,"  said  his  mistress. 

Ercole  turned  a  light  somerset,  gave  a  high  jump,  and 
came  down  in  the  attitude  of  the  Mercury  of  John  of 
Bologna. 

"  Why,  you  are  really  wonderful !"  said  Miss  Senter, 
admiringly. 

And  now  he  was  dancing  with  butterfly  grace. 

Miss  Senter  was  won.  "  But  if  I  let  you  come  in, 
Ercole,  I  hope  you  will  remember  where  you  are  ?"  she 
said,  warningly.  "  Can  you  breathe  quite  at  ease  in 
that  mask  ?" 

The  gondolier  opened  his  grotesque  painted  lips  a 
little  to  show  that  he  could  part  them. 

"  Yes,  I  see.  Now  listen ;  in  the  drawing-room  you 
must  keep  your  eye  on  me,  and  if  at  any  time  you  see 
me  raise  my  hand — so — you  must  dance  out  of  the 
room,  Ercole.  For  the  sign  will  mean  that  that  is 
enough.  But,  dear  me  !  there's  one  thing  we  haven't 
thought  of ;  who  is  to  see  to  the  musicians  up-stairs,  and 
to  go  back  and  forth,  telling  them  what  to  play  ?" 

"  I  can  do  that,"  said  Carmela,  who  was  now  all 
smiles.  "  Does  the  signorina  wish  me  to  take  them 
up  ?  They  are  all  ready.  They  are  waiting  in  the 
wood-room." 

The  wood-room  was  a  remote  store-room  for  fuel ;  it 
was  detached  from  the  rest  of  the  apartment.  "  Why 
did  you  put  them  there?'1''  inquired  Miss  Senter,  aston- 
ished. 

"  They  are  musicians — yes ;  but  who   knows  what 


208  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

else  they  may  be?  Thieves,  perhaps  !"  said  the  deputy, 
shrewdly. 

"Get  them  out  immediately  and  take  them  up  to  the 
gallery,"  said  Miss  Senter.  "  And  tell  them  to  play 
something  lively  as  a  beginning." 

Carmela,  quick  as  usual,  was  gone  before  the  words 
were  ended. 

"  Now,  Ercole,  wait  until  you  hear  the  music.  Then 
come  in,"  said  the  Consuless. 

She  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  making  a  motion 
with  her  hands  as  she  advanced,  which  indicated  that 
her  guests  were  to  move  a  little  more  towards  the  walls 
on  each  side,  leaving  the  centre  of  the  room  free.  And 
then,  as  the  music  burst  out  above,  Ercole  came  bound- 
ing in.  His  dress  was  ordinary ;  Miss  Senter  was 
vexed  anew  that  he  had  not  told  her  of  his  plan,  for  if 
he  had  she  could  have  provided  a  perfectly  fresh  cos- 
tume. But  no  one  noticed  the  costume ;  all  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  gambols  ;  for,  keeping  time  to  the  music, 
he  was  advancing  up  the  room,  dancing,  bounding,  leap- 
ing, turning  somersets,  and  every  now  and  then  striking 
an  attitude  with  extraordinary  skill.  He  was  so  light 
that  his  white  linen  feet  made  no  sound,  and  so  grace- 
ful that  the  fixed  grin  of  his  mask  became  annoying, 
clashing  as  it  did  with  the  beauty  of  his  poses.  This 
thought,  however,  came  to  the  elders  only ;  for  to  the 
children,  fascinated,  shouting  with  delight,  the  broad 
red  smile  was  an  important  part. 

"  It's  our  gondolier,"  explained  Miss  Senter.  "  It's 
Ercole,"  she  had  whispered  to  her  brother. 

"  You  are  always  so  fortunate  in  servants,"  said  Lady 
Kay.  "  That  little  woman  you  have,  too,  Carmela — she 
is  a  miracle  for  an  Italian." 


A    CHEISTMAS    PARTY  209 

Four  times  the  clown  made  bis  pyrotechnic  progress 
up  and  then  down  the  long  salon,  never  twice  repeating 
the  same  pose,  but  always  something  new  ;  then,  after  a 
final  tremendous  pigeon-wing,  he  let  his  white  arms  fall 
and  his  white  head  droop  on  his  breast,  as  if  saying 
that  he  was  taking  a  moment  for  repose. 

"Yes,  yes  ;  give  him  time  to  breathe,  children,"  cried 
Peter.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  added  to  Sir  William 
Kay ;  "  I've  never  seen  a  better  performance  on  any 
stage."  And  he  slapped  his  leg  in  confirmation.  The 
Consul  was  a  man  whose  sole  claim  to  beauty  lay  in  the 
fact  that  he  always  looked  extremely  clean.  He  was 
meagre  and  small,  with  very  short  legs,  but  he  was  with- 
out consciousness  of  these  deficiencies ;  in  the  presence 
of  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  for  instance,  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  draw  comparisons.  Nature,  how- 
ever, will  out  in  some  way,  and  from  childhood  Peter 
Senter  had  had  a  profound  admiration  for  feats  of 
strength,  vaulting,  tumbling,  and  the  like.  "  I'll  tell 
you  what,"  he  repeated  to  Sir  William ;  "  I'll  have  the 
fellow  exhibited  ;  I'll  start  him  at  my  own  cost.  Here 
all  this  time — two  whole  years — he  has  been  our  gon- 
dolier, Ercoly  has,  and  nothing  more  ;  for  I  hadn't  a 
suspicion  that  he  had  the  least  talent  in  this  line.  But, 
sir,  he's  a  regular  high-flier !  And  A  Number  One  !" 

Meanwhile  the  children  were  crowding  closely  round 
their  clown,  and  peering  up  in  order  still  to  see  his  grin, 
which  was  now  partly  hidden,  owing  to  his  drooped 
head ;  the  three  Kings  of  Orient,  especially,  were  very 
pressing  in  their  attentions,  pinching  his  legs  to  see  if 
they  were  real. 

"  Come,  children,  this  will  be  a  good  time  for  our 
second  song,"  said  Miss  Senter,  making  a  diversion. 

14 


210  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

"  Take  hands,  now,  in  a  circle  ;  yes — round  the  clown,  if 
you  wish.  There — that's  right."  She  signalled  to  the 
music  to  stop,  and  then,  beginning,  led  the  little  singers 
herself : 

"  Though  we're  here  on  foreign  shores, 

We  are  all  devotion 
To  our  land  of  Stars  and  Stripes, 

Far  across  the  ocean. 
Yankee  doodle  doodle  doo, 

Yankee  doodle  dandy, 
Buckwheat  cakes  are  very  good, 

And  so's  molasses  candy." 

Singing  this  gayly  to  the  well-known  fife-like  tune, 
round  and  round  danced  the  children  in  a  circle,  hold- 
ing each  other's  hands,  the  English  and  Italians  gener- 
ously joining  with  the  little  Americans  in  praise  of  the 
matutinal  cakes  which  they  had  never  seen  ;  the  Consul- 
ess  had  drilled  her  choir  beforehand,  and  they  sang 
merrily  and  well.  The  first  four  lines  of  this  ditty  had 
been  composed  by  Peter  himself  for  the  occasion. 

"  I  hear  you  haf  written  this  vurra  fine  piece  !"  said 
a  Russian  princess,  addressing  him. 

"  Oh  no,"  answered  the  Consul ;  "  I  only  wrote  the 
first  four  lines  ;  the  chorus  is  one  of  our  national  songs, 
you  know." 

"  But  those  first  four  lines — their  sentiment  ees  so 
fine,  so  speerited !"  said  the  princess. 

"  Well,  they're  neat,"  Peter  admitted,  modestly. 

The  clown,  having  recovered  his  breath,  cut  a  caper. 
Instantly  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  came  to  an  end,  and  the 
children  all  stopped  to  watch  him. 

"  Tell  them  to  play  a  waltz,"  said  Miss  Senter  to 
Carmela,  who  was  in  waiting  at  the  door.  The  deputy 


A    CHKISTMAS    PARTY  211 

must  have  flown  up  the  little  stairway  leading  to  the 
gallery,  for  the  waltz  began  in  less  than  a  minute. 
Then  Ercole,  selecting  a  pretty  American  child  from 
among  the  group,  began  to  dance  with  her  in  the  most 
charming  way,  followed  by  all  the  little  ones,  two  and 
two.  Those  who  could  waltz,  did  so ;  those  who  could 
not,  held  each  other's  hands  and  hopped  about. 

Supper  followed.  The  hot  things  were  smoking  and 
delicious,  and  the  supplies  constantly  renewed ;  old 
Giorgio  was  evidently  on  his  mettle.  It  was  the  gon- 
dolier, still  in  his  clown's  dress,  who  brought  in  these 
supplies  and  handed  them  to  the  waiters  from  Flo- 
rian's. 

"Yo,u  need  not  do  that,  Ercole,"  said  Miss  Senter,  in 
an  undertone ;  "  these  men  can  go  to  the  kitchen  for 
them." 

Ercole  bowed  ;  it  would  not  have  been  respectful 
to  reply  with  his  grinning  linen  lips.  But  he  continued 
to  fill  the  same  office. 

"Perhaps  Giorgio  won't  have  Florian's  people  in  the 
kitchen  !"  the  Consuless  reflected. 

As  soon  as  supper  was  over,  the  children  clamored 
for  their  clown,  and  he  came  bounding  in  a  second 
time,  and,  after  several  astonishing  capers,  selected 
a  beautiful  English  child  with  long  golden  curls  and 
led  a  galop,  followed  again  by  all  the  others,  two  and 
two.  Peter,  his  mind  still  occupied  with  his  project  of 
taking  the  young  Italian  to  America  as  a  star  performer, 
moved  from  point  to  point,  in  order  to  get  different 
views  of  him.  One  of  these  stations  was  in  the  door- 
way, and  here  Carmela  spoke  to  him  in  a  low  tone,  and 
asked  him  to  come  to  the  outer  hall.  He  did  not  under- 
stand her  words ;  but  he  comprehended  her  gesture 


212  A    CHRISTMAS    PAB^Y 

and  followed  her.  She  was  talking  angrily,  almost 
spluttering,  as  she  led  the  way.  But  her  talk  was  lost 
on  her  master,  who,  however,  opened  his  eyes  when  he 
saw  four  policemen  standing  at  his  outer  door. 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?"  he  said.  "  This  is  a 
private  residence,  and  you  are  disturbing  a  Christmas 
party." 

The  chief  officer  told  his  tale.  But  Peter  did  not 
comprehend  him. 

"  You  should  have  gone  to  the  Consulate,"  he  went 
on.  "  The  Consulate,  you  know — Riva  Skevony.  The 
vice-consul  won't  be  there  so  late  as  this ;  but  you'll  find 
him  early  to-morrow  morning,  sure." 

The  policemen,  however,  remained  where  they  were. 

"  There's  no  making  them  understand  a  word,"  said 
Peter  to  himself,  in  irritation.  "  Here,  you  go  and  call 
my  sister,"  he  said  to  Carmela,  who,  in  her  wrath  over 
this  intrusion,  stood  at  a  distance  swallowing  nothing 
in  a  series  of  gulps  that  made  her  throat  twitch.  "Let's 
see ;  sister,  that's  sorelly.  Sorelly  !"  he  repeated  to 
Carmela.  "  Sorelly  !" 

The  enraged  little  deputy  understood.  And  she  got 
Miss  Senter  out  of  the  drawing-room  without  attracting 
notice.  "  The  master  wishes  to  see  the  signorina,"  she 
said, in  a  concentrated  undertone.  "I  burn  with  indig- 
nation, for  it  is  an  insolent  intrusion  ;  it  is  an  insult  to 
his  Excellency,  who  no  doubt  is  a  prince  in  his  own 
country.  But  they  would  not  go,  in  spite  of  all  I  could 
say.  Nor  would  they  tell  me  their  errand — brutes !" 
And  with  her  skirts  quivering  she  led  the  way  to  the 
outer  hall. 

"  Find  out  what  these  men  want,  Barly,"  said  Peter, 
when  his  sister  appeared. 


A   CHRISTMAS    PARTY  213 

And  then  the  chief  officer  again  told  his  story. 

"  Mercy  !"  said  Miss  Senter,  "  how  dreadful.  Some- 
body was  killed,  Peter,  about  seven  o'clock  this  even- 
ing, in  a  cafe  near  the  Rialto,  and  they  say  they 
have  just  found  a  clew  which  appears  to  track  the 
assassin  to  this  very  door !  And  they  wish  to 
search." 

"  "\Vhat  an  absurd  idea !  With  the  -whole  place 
crowded  and  blazing  with  lights,  as  it  is  to-night,  a 
mouse  couldn't  hide,"  said  Peter.  "  Tell  them  so." 

"  They  repeat  that  they  must  search,"  said  Miss  Sen- 
ter. "  But  if  you  will  exert  your  authority,  Peter — 
make  use  of  your  official  position — I  am  sure  we  need 
not  submit  to  such  a  thing." 

Peter,  however,  was  helpless  without  his  vice-consul; 
he  had  no  clear  idea  as  to  what  his  powers  were  or 
were  not ;  he  had  never  informed  himself. 

Carmela,  greatly  excited,  had  drawn  Miss  Senter 
aside.  "  There  was  a  sixth  man  with  those  musicians!" 
she  whispered.  "  I  saw  him.  He  did  not  play,  but 
he  sat  behind  them.  And  he  has  only  just  gone.  Five 
minutes  ago." 

Miss  Senter  repeated  the  information  to  the  chief 
officer.  The  officer  immediately  detached  two  men  to 
follow  this  important  clew ;  he  himself,  with  the  third, 
would  remain  to  go  through  the  apartment,  as  a  matter 
of  form. 

"  As  the  rooms  are  all  open  and  lighted,"  said  Miss 
Senter  in  English  to  her  brother,  "  it  will  only  take  a 
few  minutes,  if  go  they  must,  and  no  one  need  know 
anything  about  it.  But  whom  shall  we  send  with 
them  ?  If  we  call  Ercole,  it  will  attract  attention ;  and 
Florian's  men,  who  were  due  at  another  place,  have  al- 


214  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

ready  gone.  We  could  have  Andrea  come  up.  But  no  ; 
Giorgio  will  do  best  of  all.  Call  Giorgio  to  go  with 
these  men,"  she  added  in  Italian  to  Carmela. 

"  Let  me  conduct  them  !"  answered  the  deputy. 

"  Yes;  on  the  whole,  she  will  be  better  than  any  one," 
said  Miss  Senter  to  Peter.  "  She  is  so  angry  at  what 
she  calls  the  insult  to  you,  and  so  excited  about  the 
mysterious  person  who  was  with  the  musicians,  that  she 
will  bully  them  and  hurry  them  off  to  look  for  him  in 
no  time.  They  can  begin  with  a  peep  into  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  I'll  tell  them  to  keep  themselves  hidden." 
She  turned  and  explained  her  idea  in  Italian  to  the  offi- 
cer ;  they  could  glance  into  the  drawing-room  first,  and 
then  Carmela  would  take  them  through  all  the  other 
rooms;  the  Consul,  though  he  had  the  power  of  refusal, 
would  permit  this  liberty  in  the  cause  of  justice.  Their 
search,  however,  would  be  unavailing ;  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  impossible  that  any  one  should  have 
taken  refuge  there,  unless  it  was  that  one  extra  man 
who  had  been  admitted  with  the  musicians  to  the  gal- 
lery. And  he  was  already  gone. 

"Perhaps  he  only  pretended  to  go?"  suggested  the 
officer.  "  With  permission,  I  will  lock  this  door." 
And  lie  did  so. 

They  went  to  the  drawing-room,  the  policemen  mov- 
ing quietly,  close  to  the  wall.  When  the  last  ante- 
room was  reached,  the  two  men  hid  themselves  behind 
the  tapestries  that  draped  the  door,  and,  making  loop- 
holes among  the  folds,  peeped  into  the  ball-room.  For 
it  was  at  that  moment  a  ball-room.  The  children  had 
again  taken  up  their  whirling  dance  around  Ercole,  and 
the  gondolier,  who  had  now  a  small  child  perched  on 
each  of  his  shoulders,  was  singing  with  them  in  a  clear 


A    SMALL    CHILD    PKRCHKD    ON    EACH    OF   HIS    SHOULDERS 


A   CHRISTMAS    PARTY  215 

tenor,  having  caught  the  syllables  from  having  heard 
them  shouted  about  fifty  times  : 

" Yankee  dooda  dooda  doo, 

Yankee  dooda  dandee, 

Barkeet  cakar  vera  goo, 

Arso  molarsa  candee." 

Miss  Senter  had  sent  Peter  back  to  his  guests.  She 
herself,  standing  between  the  tapestries  as  though  she 
were  looking  on  from  the  doorway,  named  to  the  hid- 
den policemen,  as  well  as  she  could  amid  the  loud  sing- 
ing within,  all  the  persons  present,  one  by  one.  Finally 
her  list  came  to  a  close.  "And  that  is  Mr.  Barlow,  the 
American  who  lives  at  the  Danieli ;  and  the  one  near 
the  Christmas-tree  is  Mr.  Douglas,  who  has  the  Palazzo 
Dario.  And  the  tall,  large  gentleman  with  silver  hair 
is  Sir  William  Kay.  That  is  all,  except  the  clown,  who 
is  our  gondolier,  and  the  five  musicians  up  in  the  gal- 
lery ;  can  you  see  them  from  here  ?  If  not,  Carmela 
can  take  you  up."  And  then  she  thought,  with  a  sud- 
den little  shudder,  that  perhaps  the  officer's  idea  was 
not,  after  all,  impossible  ;  perhaps,  indeed,  that  extra 
man  had  only  pretended  to  go  ! 

The  policemen  signified  that  this  was  enough  as  re- 
garded the  drawing-room ;  they  withdrew  softly,  and 
waited  outside  the  door. 

"  Now  take  them  through  all  the  other  rooms,  Car- 
mela," whispered  the  Consuless.  "  Be  as  quiet  about  it 
as  you  can,  so  that  no  one  need  know.  And  when  they 
have  finally  gone,  come  and  stand  for  a  moment  be- 
tween these  curtains,  as  a  sign.  If,  by  any  chance, 
they  should  discover  any  one — " 

"  The  signorina  need  not  be  frightened ;  I  saw  the 


S16  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

man  go  myself!  And  he  could  not  have  re-entered 
without  my  knowledge.  As  for  these  beasts  of  police- 
men— "  And  Carmela's  eyes  flashed,  while  her  set 
lips  seemed  to  say,  "  Trust  me  to  hustle  them  out !" 

"  Run  up  first  and  tell  the  musicians  to  play  the 
music  I  sent  them,"  said  the  Consuless.  And  then  she 
rejoined  her  guests. 

For  the  next  dance  was  to  be  a  Virginia  Reel,  and 
some  of  the  elders  were  to  join  the  children  ;  the  two 
lines,  when  arranged,  extended  down  half  the  length  of 
the  long  room.  It  began  with  great  spirit,  the  clown 
and  the  three  Kings  of  Orient  dancing  at  the  end  of 

O  O 

the  file. 

"It  is  really  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  an  English  dance," 
said  Lady  Kay  to  the  Russian  princess,  who  was  look- 
ing on  from  the  chair  next  her  own.  "  But  the  Senters 
like  to  call  it  a  Virginia  Reel,  they  are  so  patriotic. 
And  we  never  contradict  the  Senters,  you  know,"  added 
the  English  lady,  laughing  ;  "  we  let  them  have  their 
way." 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  vurra  good  way,"  answered  the 
princess,  who  was  a  plain-looking  old  woman  with  a 
charming  smile.  "  I  have  nowhere  seen  so  many  reech 
toyees"  (here  she  glanced  at  the  costly  playthings  heaped 
on  a  table  near  by).  "  Nor  haf  I,  in  Italy,  seen  so  many 
tings  to  eat.  With  so  moche  champagne." 

"Yes,  they  always  do  that,"  answered  the  baronet's 
wife.  "  They  are  so  very  lavish.  And  very  kind." 

Miss  Senter  herself  was  dancing  the  reel.  Once  she 
thought  there  was  a  quaver  in  the  music,  and,  glancing 
up  quickly  towards  the  gallery,  she  perceived  the  heads 
of  the  policemen  behind  the  players.  The  players, 
however,  recovered  themselves  immediately,  and  upon 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  217 

looking  up  again  a  moment  afterwards  she  saw  with  re- 
lief that  the  sinister  apparition  had  vanished.  Ten 
minutes  later  the  trim  little  figure  of  the  deputy  ap- 
peared between  the  tapestries  of  the  doorway.  Miss 
Senter,  still  dancing,  nodded  slightly,  as  a  signal  that 
she  perceived  her,  and  then  Carmela,  with  an  answer- 
ing nod  and  one  admiring  look  at  Ercole,  disappeared. 
After  all,  now  that  there  had  been  a  suspicion  about 
that  extra  man,  it  was  a  comfort  to  have  had  the  apart- 
ment searched ;  it  would  make  the  moment  of  going  to 
bed  easier,  the  American  lady  reflected, 

It  was  now  half-past  eleven.  By  midnight  the  last 
sleepy  child  had  been  carried  down  the  marble  stairway, 
the  music  ceased,  and  the  musicians  departed.  The 
elders,  glad  that  the  noise  was  over,  remained  half  an 
hour  longer ;  then  they  took  leave.  Only  Lady  Kay 
and  her  husband  were  left ;  they  had  waited  to  take  a 
closer  look  at  Miss  Senter's  Christmas  present  to  her 
brother,  which  was  a  large  and  beautifully  executed 
copy  of  Tintoretto's  "  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,"  from  the 
Anticollegio  of  the  Doge's  Palace.  It  had  been  placed 
temporarily  on  the  wall  behind  the  Christmas-tree, 

"  How  exquisite  !"  said  Lady  Kay,  with  a  long  sigh. 
"  You  are  most  fortunate,  Mr.  Senter." 

"  Oh  yes.  Though  I  don't  quite  know  what  they 
will  think  of  it  in  Rochester,  New  York,"  answered 
Peter,  chuckling. 

Sir  William  and  his  wife  intended  to  walk  home. 
When  it  was  cold  they  preferred  to  walk  rather  than  go 
to  and  fro  in  a  gondola ;  and  as  they  were  old  residents, 
they  knew  every  turn  of  the  intricate  burrowing  chinks 
in  all  the  quarters  that  serve  as  footways.  When  they 
took  leave  at  one  o'clock,  Peter  and  Miss  Senter,  with 


218  A   CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

American  friendliness,  accompanied  them  to  the  outer 
door.  Peter  was  about  to  open  this  door  when  it  was 
swung  back,  and  a  figure  reeled  in — Ercole.  He  had 
taken  off  his  clown's  dress,  and  wore  now  his  gondolier's 
costume  ;  but  this  costume  was  in  disorder,  and  his  face 
was  darkly  red — a  purple  red. 

"  Why,  Ercole,  is  it  you  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?" 
said  Miss  Senter,  as  he  staggered  against  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  her  Excellency  the  Consuless,  I  have  been 
beaten  /'' 

"  Beaten  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  thought  you 
were  down  at  the  landing  with  Andrea,"  said  Miss 
Senter. 

"  The  antiquity-dealer  suffocates,"  muttered  Ercole. 
"  And  Giorgio — dead  !" 

This  "  dead "  (morto  /)  even  Peter  understood. 
"  Dead  !  What  is  he  saying,  Barly  ?" 

"  The  man  is  saying,  Mr.  Senter,  that  an  antiquity- 
dealer  is  suffocating,  and  that  somebody  he.  calls  Giorgio 
is  dead,"  translated  the  pink-cheeked,  portly  Lady  Kay, 
in  her  sweet  voice.  "  It's  your  gondolier,  isn't  it — the 
one  who  played  the  clown  so  nicely  ?  What  a  pity  ! 
He  has  been  drinking,  I  fear." 

While  she  was  saying  this,  Sir  William  was  leading 
Ercole  farther  away  from  the  ladies. 

"Yes,  he  is  drunk,"  said  Peter,  looking  at  him. 
"  Too  bad !  We  must  have  help.  Let's  see  ;  Andrea 
is  down  at  the  landing.  I'll  get  him.  And  you  call 
Giorgio,  Barly." 

Here  Ercole,  held  by  Sir  William,  gave  a  maddened 
cry,  and  threw  his  head  about  violently. 

"Oh,  don't  leave  my  husband  alone  with  him,  Mr. 
Senter,"  said  Lady  Kay,  alarmed.  "  He  is  a  very  pow- 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  219 

erful  young  man,  and  his  eyes  are  dreadful.  To  me  he 
looks  as  if  he  were  mad.  Those  somersaults  have 
affected  his  head." 

And  the  gondolier's  eyes  were  indeed  strangely  blood- 
shot and  wild.  Miss  Senter  had  hurried  to  the  kitchen. 
But  Giorgio  was  not  there.  She  came  back,  and  found 
Ercole  struggling  with  the  Englishman  and  her  brother. 

"  Let  me  try,"  she  said.  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  him. 
Ercole,"  she  continued,  speaking  gently  in  Italian,  "  go 
to  your  room  now,  and  go  to  bed  quietly  ;  everything 
will  be  all  right  to-morrow." 

Ercole  writhed  in  Sir  William's  grasp.  "  The  antiq- 
uity-dealer !  And  Giorgio — dead  !" 

"  Where  is  Giorgio,  Early  ?"  said  Peter,  angrily,  as 
he  helped  Sir  William  in  securing  the  gondolier.  "  And 
where  are  the  other  servants  ?  Where's  Carmela  ?  Find 
them,  and  send  one  down  to  the  landing  for  Andrea, 
and  the  other  for  Giorgio.  Quick  !" 

"  Oh,  Peter,  I've  been,  and  I  couldn't  find  Giorgio  or 
any  one." 

"  Carmela  was  in  your  bedroom  not  long  ago,"  said 
Lady  Kay,  watching  the  gondolier's  contortions  ner- 
vously ',  "  she  helped  me  put  on  my  cloak." 

Miss  Senter  ran  to  her  bedroom,  her  train  flying  in 
the  haste  she  made.  But  in  a  moment  she  was  back 
again.  "  There  is  no  one  there.  Oh,  where  are  they 
all  ?" 

Ercole,  hearing  her  voice,  peered  at  her  with  his 
crimsoned  eyes,  and  then,  breaking  loose  suddenly,  he 
came  and  caught  hold  of  her  arm.  "  The  antiquity- 
room.  Will  she  come  ?" 

Peter  and  Sir  William  dragged  him  away  by  main 
force. 


220  A   CHPaSTMAS    PARTY 

"  The  gentlemen,  then.  Will  they  come  ?"  said  the 
gondolier,  hoarsely.  And  again  freeing  himself  with 
two  strokes  of  his  powerful  arms,  he  passed  out  (for 
the  door  was  still  open),  and  began  to  descend  the  out- 
side staircase. 

"  Oh,  thank  Heaven,  he  has  gone  !"  "  Oh,  lock  the 
door !"  cried  the  two  ladies  together. 

"  We  must  follow  him,  Mr.  Senter,"  said  Sir  Will- 
iam. "  He  is  plainly  mad  from  drink,  and  may  do  some 
harm." 

"  Yes ;  and  down  there  Andrea  can  help  us,"  an- 
swered Peter. 

And  the  two  gentlemen  hastened  down  the  staircase. 
It  was  a  very  long  flight  with  three  turns.  The  court 
below  was  brilliantly  lighted  by  many  wall  lamps. 

"  I  don't  like  my  husband's  going  down,"  said  Lady 
Kay,  in  a  tremor,  as  she  stood  on  the  landing  outside. 
"  If  they  are  going  to  seize  him,  the  more  of  us  the 
better  ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  For  while  they  are  hold- 
ing him,  you  and  I  could  run  across  and  get  that  other 
man  in  from  the  riva." 

But  Miss  Senter  was  not  there.  She  had  rushed  back 
into  the  house,  and  was  now  calling  with  all  her  strength : 
"  Giorgio  !  Carmela  !  Assunta !  Beppa  !"  There  was 
no  answer,  and,  seized  with  a  fresh  panic  by  the  strange- 
ness of  this  silence,  she  hastened  out  again  and  joined 
Lady  Kay,  who  was  already  half-way  down  the  stairs. 
The  gondolier  had  not  turned  towards  the  water  en- 
trance ;  he  had  crossed  the  court  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection, and  now  he  was  passing  through  a  broad,  low 
door  which  led  into  the  hall  on  the  ground -floor  be- 
hind the  show-room  of  Z.  Pelham,  throwing  open  as 
he  did  so  both  wings  of  this  entrance,  so  that  the  light 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  221 

from  the  court  entered  in  a  broad  beam  across  the  stone 
pavement. 

"  My  dear,  don't  go  in  !"  "  Oh,  Peter,  stop  !  stop  !" 
cried  the  two  ladies,  as  they  breathlessly  descended  the 
last  flight. 

But  Peter  and  Sir  William  had  paid  no  attention. 
Quickly  detaching  two  of  the  lamps  from  the  wall,  they 
had  followed  the  madman. 

"  The  other  gondolier !"  gasped  Lady  Kay. 

And  the  two  women  ran  swiftly  to  the  water-door 
and  threw  it  open,  Miss  Senter  calling,  in  Italian  :  "  An- 
drea !  come  instantly  /" 

The  little  riva  along  the  small  canal  was  also  brightly 
lighted.  But  there  was  no  one  there.  And  opposite 
there  was  only  a  long  blank  *vall. 

"  Oh,  we  must  not  leave  them  a  moment  longer," 
said  Lady  Kay. 

And  again  they  rushed  across  the  broad  court,  this 
time  entering  the  dark  water-story ;  for  it  was  better 
to  enter,  dreadful  though  it  was,  than  to  remain  out- 
side, not  knowing  what  might  be  happening  within. 
Ercole  meanwhile  had  made  his  way  into  Mr.  Pelham's 
show-room,  and  here  he  had  struck  a  match  and  lighted 
a  candle.  As  he  had  left  the  door  of  the  show-room 
open,  those  who  were  without  could  see  him,  and  they 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  watch  what  he  would  do  next. 
It  was  now  a  group  of  four,  for  the  ladies  had  joined 
the  other  two,  Miss  Senter  whispering  to  her  brother  : 

"  Andrea  isn't  there  !" 

The  gondolier  bent  down,  and  began  to  drag  some- 
thing across  the  floor  and  out  to  the  open  space  be- 
hind. "  Here !"  he  said,  turning  his  purple  face  tow- 
ards their  lamps.  "  I  can  no  more."  And  he  sat  down 


222  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

suddenly  on  the  pavement,  and  let  his  head  and  arms 
fall  forward  over  his  knees. 

Peter  and  Sir  William,  giving  their  lamps  to  the  la- 
dies, were  approaching  cautiously,  in  order  to  secure 
him  while  he  was  quiet,  when  they  saw,  to  their  hor- 
ror, two  human  legs  and  feet  protruding  from  the  ob- 
ject which  he  had  dragged  forth. 

"  Why,  it's  the  second-hand  dealer ;  it's  Z.  Pelham  !" 
said  Peter,  in  fresh  excitement.  "  I  know  his  arctics. 
Bring  the  lamp,  Early.  Quick  !" 

The  two  ladies  came  nearer,  keeping  one  eye  upon 
Ercole.  Peter  and  Sir  William  with  some  difficulty  cut 
the  rope,  and  unwound  two  woollen  coverlids  and  a 
sheet.  Within,  almost  suffocated,  with  his  hands  tied 
behind  him,  was  the  dealer. 

"  I  suppose  he  did  this  !"  whispered  Lady  Kay  to 
Miss  Senter,  her  pink  face  white,  as  she  indicated  the 
motionless  gondolier. 

Sir  William  lifted  the  dealer's  head,  while  Peter 
loosened  his  collar. 

"  Now  will  Excellencies  look  for  Giorgio,"  muttered 
Ercole,  without  changing  his  position. 

"  He  says  now  will  you  look  for  Giorgio,"  translated 
Lady  Kay.  "  That  he  tells  his  crimes  shows  that  he 
really  is  mad  !"  she  added,  in  a  whisper. 

"  No  ;  I  think  he  has  come  to  for  the  moment,  and 
that's  why  he  tells,"  said  Peter,  hastily  rubbing  Z.  Pel- 
ham's  chest.  "  Ask  him  where  we  shall  look,  Barly ; 
ask  while  he's  lucid." 

"  Where  must  we  look  for  Giorgio,  Ercole  ?"  qua- 
vered Miss  Senter,  her  Italian  coming  out  with  the  odd- 
est pronunciation. 

"  Back  stairs,"  answered  the  gondolier. 


A    CHRISTMAS    PAKTY  223 

"  Back  stairs,  he  says,"  translated  Lady  Kay. 

"  There  are  no  back  stairs,"  replied  Peter. 

"  I'll  put  this  coverlid  under  his  back.  That  will  make 
him  breathe  better,"  said  the  Englishman,  his  sympa- 
thies roused  by  the  forlorn  plight  of  the  little  dealer, 
whose  carefully  strapped  arctic  shoes  gave  ironical  em- 
phasis to  his  helplessness. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Senter,  saying  "  Yes,  there  are 
stairs,"  had  run  across  the  pavement  with  her  lamp, 
found  the  door  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  opened  it. 
Z.  Pelham  began  to  breathe  more  regularly,  although 
he  had  not  yet  opened  his  eyes.  Sir  William  drew  him 
farther  away  from  the  gondolier,  and  then  he  and  Peter 
hastened  across  and  looked  up  the  spiral.  "  It  goes  to 
the  attics,"  explained  Miss  Senter. 

"  You  two  stand  here  at  the  bottom  with  one  lamp, 
and  Sir  William  and  I  will  go  up  with  the  other,"  said 
Peter.  "  Keep  your  eye  on  Ercole,  Early,  and  if  he  so 
much  as  moves,  come  right  up  and  join  us." 

"  Wait  an  instant,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  Stay 
here  with  Mr.  Senter,  Gertrude."  Making  a  detour  so 
as  not  to  rouse  the  gondolier,  he  entered  the  antiquity- 
dealer's  show-room  and  tried  to  open  the  outer  door. 
But  it  was  locked,  and  the  key  was  not  there.  "  No 
use,"  he  said,  coming  hurriedly  back  ;  "  I  had  hoped  to 
get  help  from  outside  to  watch  him  while  we  go  up. 
Now  remember,  Gertrude,  you  and  Miss  Senter  are  to 
come  up  and  join  us  instantly  if  he  leaves  his  place." 
And  then  he  and  Peter  ascended  the  winding  steps, 
carrying  one  of  the  lamps.  Round  and  round  went  the 
gleam  of  their  light,  and  the  two  ladies  at  the  bottom, 
standing  with  their  skirts  caught  up  ready  to  run, 
watched  the  still  form  of  the  gondolier  in  the  distance, 


224  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

visible  in  the  gleam  of  the  candle  burning  in  the  show- 
room. It  seemed  an  hour.  But  a  full  minute  had  not 
gone  when  Peter's  voice  above  cried  out : 

"  It's  Giorgio  !  Good  God  !  Killed  !  Bring  up  the 
other  light." 

And  the  two  ladies  rushed  up  together.  There  on 
the  landing  lay  the  poor  old  cook,  his  eyes  closed,  his 
face  ghastly,  his  white  jacket  deeply  stained  with  blood. 
Miss  Senter,  who  was  really  attached  to  the  old  man, 
began  to  cry. 

"  He  isn't  quite  dead,"  said  Peter,  who  had  been 
listening  for  the  heart.  "  But  we  must  get  him  out 
of  this  icy  place.  Then  we'll  tie  up  Ercoly — we  can 
use  that  rope — and  after  he  is  secured,  I  can  go  for 
help.  Here,  you  take  his  head  and  shoulders,  Sir  Will- 
iam ;  you  are  the  strongest.  And  I'll  take  his  body. 
Barly  can  take  the  feet." 

"  It  will  be  difficult,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  These 
steep  stairs — " 

But  Peter,  when  roused,  was  a  veritable  little  lion. 
"  Come  on,"  he  said  ;  "  we  can  do  it." 

"  Please  go  down  first  and  see  if  Ercole  is  still 
quiet,"  begged  Miss  Senter  of  Lady  Kay.  And  the 
Englishwoman,  who  now  had  both  lamps,  went  down 
and  came  back  in  thirty  seconds  ;  she  never  knew  how 
she  did  it.  "  He  has  not  stirred,"  she  said.  And  then 
old  Giorgio  was  borne  down,  and  out  to  the  brilliantly 
lighted  court  beyond. 

"  Now,"  said  Peter,  whose  face  was  bathed  with 
great  drops  of  perspiration,  "  we'll  first  secure  him," 
and  he  indicated  Ercole  by  pointing  his  thumb  back- 
ward over  his  shoulder  towards  the  water-story,  "  and 
then  I'll  go  for  a  doctor  and  the  police." 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  225 

But  as  he  spoke,  coming  out  of  the  door  upon  his 
hands  and  knees,  appeared  Z.  Pelham,  who,  as  soon  as 
he  saw  the  cook's  prostrate  body,  called  back,  hoarsely, 
in  Italian :  "  Ercole,  get  my  brandy-flask." 

"  Oh,  don't  call  him  !"  said  Lady  Kay,  in  terror,  clap- 
ping a  fold  of  her  skirt  tightly  over  the  dealer's  mouth 
and  holding  it  there.  "  He  is  mad — quite  mad  !" 

Mr.  Pelham  collapsed. 

"  Good  heavens !  Gertrude,  don't  suffocate  the  poor 
creature  a  second  time,"  said  Sir  William,  pulling  his 
wife  away. 

,  Z.  Pelham,  released,  raised  his  head.  "Ercole  has 
been  bad  beat,  and  tbat  makes  him  not  genteel,"  he 
explained.  "  Ercole,  bring  my  brandy-flask,"  he  called 
again,  in  Italian,  and  the  effort  he  made  to  break 
through  his  hoarseness  brought  out  the  words  in  a 
sudden  wild  yell.  "  My  voice  a  little  deranged  is,"  he 
added,  apologetically,  in  English. 

They  could  now  hear  the  steps  of  the  gondolier  with- 
in, and  the  ladies  moved  to  a  distance  as  he  appeared, 
walking  unsteadily,  the  flask  in  his  hand.  "  Not  dead  ?" 
he  said,  trying  to  see  Giorgio.  But  his  eyes  closed 
convulsively,  and  as  soon  as  the  dealer  had  taken  the 
flask,  down  he  went,  or  half  fell,  on  the  pavement  as 
before,  with  his  head  thrown  forward  over  his  knees. 
Sir  William  placed  himself  promptly  by  his  side,  while 
Peter  ran  within  to  get  the  rope.  Z.  Pelham,  uncorking 
the  flask,  poured  a  little  brandy  between  Giorgio's  pale 
lips.  "  You  have  all  mistake,"  he  said  to  Sir  William 
as  he  did  this.  "  Ercole  was  bad  beat  by  a  third  partee 
who  has  done  it  all — me  and  he  and  this  died  cook  ;  a 
third  partee  was  done  it  all."  And  he  chafed  the  cook's 
temples  with  brandy. 


226  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

"A  third  party?"  said  Peter,  who  had  returned  with 
the  rope.  "  Who  f" 

"  I  know  not ;  they  knocked  me  from  behind.  It 
was  lightning  to  me,  in  my  head  also,"  answered  Z. 
Pelham,  going  on  with  his  chafing. 

"  Come  here,  Barly,"  said  Peter,  taking  command. 
"  Say  what  I  tell  you.  Don't  be  afraid  ;  Sir  William  and 
I  will  grab  him  if  he  stirs.  Say,  '  Ercoly,  who  hurt 
you  ?'  " 

"  Ercole,  who  hurt  you  ?"  said  Miss  Senter,  tremu- 
lously. 

"  Non  so.  Un  demonio"  answered  the  gondolier, 
his  head  still  on  his  knees. 

"  He  says  he  doesn't  know.  A  demon,"  said  Lady 
Kay. 

"  Ask  when  it  happened." 

"It  was  after  he  had  taken  the  presents  from  the 
tree,"  translated  Lady  Kay  again.  "  He  was  struck, 
dragged  down  the  back  stairs,  gagged,  and  left  in  the 
antiquity-room.  He  has  only  just  now  been  able  to 
free  himself." 

"How  could  he  act  the  clown,  then?"  pursued  Peter. 
"  He  says  he  hasn't  been  a  clown  or  seen  a  clown. 
Oh,  Peter,  it  was  some  one  else  disguised  !  Who  could 
it  have  been  ?"  cried  Miss  Senter,  running  away  as  if  to 
fly  up  the  staircase,  and  then  in  her  terror  running 
back  again. 

The  cook's  eyes  had  now  opened.  "  He  says  see 
what  is  stoled,"  said  Mr.  Pelham,  administering  more 
brandy.  Mr.  Pelham  was  seated,  tailor  fashion,  on  the 
pavement,  his  feet  in  their  arctics  under  him. 

"Giorgio  knows  something  about  it,  too,"  said  Peter. 
"  Ask  him,  Early." 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  227 

But  Miss  Senter  was  incapable  of  speaking ;  she  had 
hidden  her  face  on  Lady  Kay's  shoulder,  shuddering. 
The  clown  with  whom  she  had  talked,  who  had  danced 
all  the  evening  with  the  children,  was  an  assassin  !  A 
strange  and  savage  murderer  ! 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  the  Englishman.  And  bending 
over  Giorgio,  he  asked,  in  correct,  stiff  Italian  :  "  Do 
you  know  who  hurt  you  ?" 

"A  tall,  dark  man.  I  never  saw  him  before,"  an- 
swered the  cook,  or  rather  his  lips  formed  those 
words.  "He  stabbed  me  after  he  had  struck  down 
Ercole." 

"  Now  he  is  again  gone,"  soliloquized  Z.  Pelham,  as 
Giorgio's  eyes  closed ;  "  I  have  fear  this  time  he  is 
truly  died !"  And  he  chafed  the  cook's  temples  anew. 

"It's  all  clear  now,"  said  Peter,  "and  Ercoly  isn't 
mad ;  only  hurt  in  some  way.  So  I'll  go  for  help  at 
once." 

"  Oh,  Peter,  you  always  get  lost !"  moaned  his 
sister. 

And  it  was  true  that  the  Consul  almost  invariably 
lost  his  way  in  the  labyrinth  of  chinks  behind  the 
palace. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  the  Englishman.  "  It's  not  very  late  " 
(he  looked  at  his  watch) ;  "  I  shall  be  sure  to  find  some 
one." 

"You  must  let  me  go  with  you,  my  dear,"  urged 
Lady  Kay. 

In  three  minutes  they  were  back  with  two  men. 
"  I've  brought  these  two,  and  there's  a  doctor  coming. 
And  I  sent  word  to  the  police,"  said  the  Englishman. 

And  following  very  soon  came  a  half-dressed  youth, 
a  young  American  doctor,  who  had  been  roused  by 


228  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

somebody.  The  cook  was  borne  up  the  stairway  and 
into  the  salon,  where  the  chandeliers  were  shedding 
their  soft  radiance  calmly,  and  where  all  the  fairy- 
lamps  were  still  burning  on  the  Christmas-tree ;  for  only 
twenty  minutes  had  passed  since  the  host  and  his 
guests  had  left  the  room.  Behind  the  group  of  the 
two  men  from  outside,  who  with  Peter  and  the  doc- 
tor were  carrying  Giorgio,  came  Sir  William  leading 
the  gondolier,  who  seemed  now  entirely  blind,  while  Z. 
Pelham  followed,  last  of  all,  on  his  hands  and  knees. 

"This  old  man  has  a  deep  cut — done  with  a  knife; 
he  has  lost  a  good  deal  of  blood ;  pretty  bad  case," 
said  the  doctor.  "  Your  gondolier  has  been  dreadfully 
beaten  about  the  head,  but  it  won't  kill  him  ;  he  is 
young  and  strong.  This  third  man  seems  to  be  only 
sprained.  Get  me  something  for  bandages  and  com- 
presses, and  bring  cold  water." 

"Get  towels,  Barly,"  said  the  Consul. 

"  Oh,  Peter,  I'm  afraid  to  go,"  said  Miss  Senter, 
faintly.  "The  man  may  still  be  hidden  here  somewhere. 
And  I  know  he  has  murdered  Carmela  and  the  other 
servants,  too !" 

Peter  ran  to  his  own  chamber,  and  came  back  with  a 
pile  of  towels,  a  sheet  from  his  bed,  a  large  jug  of 
water,  and  a  scissors.  "  Now,  doctor,  you  stay  hear  and 
do  what  you  can  for  all  three,"  he  said,  as  he  hurried 
round  the  great  drawing-room,  locking  all  the  doors 
but  one.  "  And  the  ladies  will  stay  here  with  you. 
The  rest  of  us  will  search  the  whole  apartment  imme- 
diately !  Lock  this  last  door  as  soon  as  we're  out, 
will  you?" 

"  Oh,  Peter,  don't  go  !"  cried  his  sister.  "  Let  those 
two  men  do  it.  Or  wait  for  the  police." 


229 

"  My  dear,  pray  consider,"  said  Lady  Kay  to  her 
husband ;  "  if  any  one  is  hidden,  it  is  some  desperate 
character — " 

But  the  Englishman  and  Peter  were  already  gone, 
and  the  ladies  were  left  with  the  doctor,  who,  compre- 
hending everything  quickly,  locked  the  last  door,  and 
then  hurried  back  to  the  cook.  Old  Giorgio's  mind 
was  now  wandering ;  he  muttered  incoherently,  and 
seemed  to  be  suffering  greatly.  The  gondolier,  his 
head  enveloped  in  wet  towels,  was  lying  in  a  stupor  on 
one  of  the  sofas.  Z.  Pelham  quietly  tied  up  his  own 
sprained  ankles  with  a  portion  of  the  torn  sheet,  and 
then  assisted  with  much  intelligence  in  the  making  of 
the  bandages  which  the  doctor  needed  for  Giorgio. 

Sir  William,  Peter,  and  the  two  men  from  outside 
began  with  the  kitchen  ;  no  one.  The  pantries  and 
store-rooms ;  no  one.  The  supper-room  ;  no  one.  The 
bedrooms ;  no  one.  The  anterooms  and  small  draw- 
ing-room ;  no  one.  As  the  whole  house  was  still 
brightly  lighted,  this  did  not  take  long.  They  now 
crossed  to  four  rooms  on  the  north  side  ;  no  one.  Then 
came  a  large  store-room  for  linen.  This  was  not 
lighted,  so  they  took  in  a  lamp ;  no  one. 

"  There's  a  second  door  here,"  said  Sir  William,  per- 
ceiving one  of  those  masked  flat  portals  common  in 
Italy,  which  are  painted  or  frescoed  so  exactly  like  the 
wall  that  they  seem  a  part  of  it. 

"  It  opens  into  a  little  recess  only  a  foot  deep," 
said  Peter,  going  on  with  the  lamp  to  the  second  store- 
room. "  No  one  could  possibly  hide  there.  Now  after 
we  have  finished  on  this  side,  there  is  only  the  wood- 
room  left ;  that  is  off  by  itself  in  a  wing." 

The  Englishman  had  accompanied  his   host.      But 


230  A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY 

having  a  strong  bent  towards  thoroughness,  he  was  not 
satisfied,  and  he  quietly  returned  alone  and  opened 
that  masked  door.  There,  flattened  against  the  wall, 
not  clearly  visible  in  the  semi-darkness,  was  the  outline 
of  a  woman's  figure.  His  exclamation  brought  back 
the  others  with  the  lamp.  It  was  Carmela. 

She  stood  perfectly  still  for  an  instant  or  two,  so 
motionless,  and  with  such  bright  eyes  staring  at  them, 
that  she  looked  like  a  wax  figure.  Then  she  sprang 
from  her  hiding-place  and  made  a  swift  rush  down  the 
corridor  towards  the  outer  door.  They  caught  her. 
She  fought  and  struggled  dreadfully,  still  without  a 
sound.  So  frantic  were  her  writhings  that  her  apron 
and  cap  were  torn  away,  and  the  braids  of  her  hair  fell 
down  and  finally  fell  off,  leaving  only,  to  Peter's 
astonishment,  a  few  locks  of  thin  white  hair  in  their 
place.  It  took  the  four  men  to  hold  her,  for  she  threw 
herself  from  side  to  side  like  a  wild -cat;  she  even 
dragged  the  four  as  far  as  the  anteroom  nearest  the 
drawing-room  in  her  desperate  efforts  to  reach  that 
outer  door.  But  here,  as  she  felt  herself  at  last  over- 
powered, a  terrible  shriek  burst  from  her,  her  face 
became  distorted,  her  eyes  rolled  up,  and  froth  ap- 
peared on  her  lips. 

The  shriek,  an  unmistakably  feminine  one,  had 
brought  the  doctor  and  two  ladies  from  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  A  fit !"  exclaimed  the  doctor  as  soon  as  he  saw  the 
froth.  "  Here,  get  open  that  tight  dress."  He  un- 
buttoned a  few  buttons  of  the  black  bodice,  and  tore  off 
the  rest.  "  Gracious  !  corsets  like  steel."  He  took  out 
his  knife,  and  hastily  cutting  the  cashmere  across  the 
shoulders,  he  got  his  hand  in  and  severed  the  corset 


A    CHRISTMAS    PARTY  231 

strings.  "  Now,  ladies,  just  help  me  to  get  her  out  of 
this  harness." 

And  with  trembling  fingers  Lady  Kay  and  Miss  Senter 
gave  their  aid,  and  after  a  moment  the  whole  edifice — 
for  it  was  an  edifice  —  sank  to  the  floor.  What  was 
left  was  an  old,  old  woman,  small  and  withered,  her 
feeble  chest  rising  and  falling  in  convulsions  under 
her  coarse  chemise,  and  the  rest  of  her  little  person 
scantily  covered  with  a  patched,  poverty-stricken  under- 
skirt. 

"  Oh,  poor  creature  !"  said  Lady  Kay,  the  tears  filling 
her  eyes  as  all  the  ribs  of  the  meagre,  wasted  body 
showed  in  the  straining,  spasmodic  effort  of  the  lungs 
to  get  breath. 

"  Bring  something  to  cover  her,  Early,"  said  Peter. 

And  Miss  Senter,  forgetting  her  fears,  ran  to  her  room, 
and  brought  back  the  first  thing  she  could  find — a  large 
white  shawl. 

"  All  right  now ;  she's  coming  to,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  convulsions  gradually  ceased,  and  Carmcla's 
eyes  opened.  She  looked  at  them  all  in  silence  as  she 
sat,  muffled  in  the  shawl,  where  they  had  placed  her. 
Finally  she  spoke.  "  The  Consul  is  too  late,"  she  said, 
with  mock  respect.  "  The  Consuless  also.  Did  they 
admire  the  dancing  of  the  clown  ?  A  fine  fellow 
that  clown !  You  need  not  hold  me,"  she  added  to 
the  two  men  from  outside,  who  were  acting  as  guards. 
"  I  have  nothing  more  to  do.  My  son  is  safe,  and  that 
was  all  I  cared  for.  They  will  never  find  him ;  he  is  far 
from  here  now.  He  is  very  clever,  and  he  has,  besides, 
to  help  him,  all  the  money  which  the  Consuless  so 
kindly  provided  for  him  by  keeping  it  in  a  secret 
drawer,  whose  '  secret '  every  Italian  not  an  idiot 


232  A   CHRISTMAS    PAETY 

knows.  But  the  Consuless  has  always  had  a  singular 
self-conceit.  I  had  only  to  mention  that  extra  man  with 
the  musicians — poor  little  Tonio  the  tailor  it  was — and 
she  swallowed  him  down  whole.  I  could  have  got  away 
myself  if  I  had  cared  to.  But  I  waited,  in  order  to  keep 
back  the  alarm  as  long  as  possible  ;  I  waited.  Oh  yes, 
I  helped  all  the  ladies  to  put  on  their  cloaks ;  I  helped 
this  English  ladyship  to  put  on  hers  last  of  all,  as  she 
knows.  When  their  Excellencies  went  down  to  the 
water-story,  I  then  tried  to  go ;  but  I  found  that  they 
could  still  see  the  staircase,  so  I  came  back.  What 
matters  it?  They  may  do  with  me  what  they  please. 
For  myself  I  care  not.  My  son  is  safe."  On  her  old 
cheeks,  under  the  falling  white  hair,  were  still  the  faint 
pink  tinges  of  rouge,  and  from  beneath  the  wretched 
petticoat  came  the  two  young-looking  high-heeled  shoes. 
She  folded  her  thin  hands  on  her  lap,  and  refused  to 
say  more. 

Assunta  and  Beppa  were  found  in  the  wood-room, 
gagged  and  bound  like  the  others,  but  not  hurt.  And 
in  the  morning  the  Consul's  gondola  was  discovered 
floating  out  with  the  tide,  and  within  it  Andrea  in  the 
same  helpless  state.  The  man,  who  was  an  ex-convict, 
a  burglar,  suspected  of  worse  crimes,  after  committing 
the  murder  at  the  cafe,  had  fled  to  the  palace.  Here  he 
and  his  intrepid  little  mother  had  invented  and  carried 
out  the  whole  scheme  in  the  one  hour  which  had  fol- 
lowed the  distribution  of  the  presents  from  the  tree, 
before  the  dancing  began.  Carmela  had  even  left  the 
house  to  obtain  a  clown's  costume  from  a  dealer  in 
masquerade  dresses  who  lived  near  by.  And  she  had 
herself  opened  for  her  son's  use  the  disused  door  which 
led  to  the  spiral  steps. 


A    CHRISTMAS    PAETY  233 

That  son  was  never  caught.  His  mother,  who  Lad 
worked  for  him  indefatigably  through  her  whole  life — 
worked  so  hard  that  her  hands  were  worn  almost  to 
claws — who  had  supported  him  and  supplied  him,  who 
had  made  herself  young  and  active  like  a  girl,  though 
she  was  seventy-four,  in  order  to  be  able  to  send  him 
money — his  mother,  who  had  allowed  herself  nothing 
in  the  world  but  the  few  smart  clothes  necessary  for 
her  disguise,  who  was  absolutely  honest,  but  who  had 
stolen  for  him  three  thousand  francs  from  the  secret 
drawer,  and  had  stood  by  and  aided  him  when  he  beat, 
stabbed,  and  gagged  her  fellow-servants — this  mother 
was  not  arrested.  She  should  have  been,  of  course. 
But  somehow,  very  strangely,  she  escaped  from  the 
palace  before  morning. 

Poor  old  Giorgio  was  never  able  to  work  again.  But 
as  Peter  pensioned  him  handsomely,  he  led  an  easy  life, 
while  Ercole  became  a  magnate  among  gondoliers. 

It  was  not  until  three  years  afterwards,  in  Rochester, 
New  York,  that  Peter,  surrounded  by  Z,  Pelham's 
entire  collection  (which  he  had  purchased,  though 
thinking  it  hideous,  at  large  prices),  confessed  to  his 
sister  that  he  had  connived  at  Carmela's  escape. 
"  Somehow  I  couldn't  stand  it,  Barly.  That  thin  white 
hair  and  those  poor  old  arms  of  hers,  and  that  wretched, 
wasted,  gasping  little  chest — in  prison  !" 


IN  VENICE 

"  YES,  we  came  over  again  in  February,  and  have 
been  here  in  Venice  since  the  last  of  March.  For  some 
reasons  I  was  sorry  to  come  back  —  one  is  so  much 
more  comfortable  at  home  !  What  I  have  suffered  in 
these  wretchedly  cold  houses  over  here  words,  Mr. 
Blake,  can  never  express.  For  in  England,  you  know, 
they  consider  fifty-eight  Fahrenheit  quite  warm  enough 
for  their  drawing-rooms,  while  here  in  Italy — well,  one 
never  is  so  cold,  I  think,  as  in  a  warm  climate.  Yes, 
we  should  have  been  more  comfortable,  as  far  as  that 
goes,  in  my  own  house  in  New  York,  reading  all  those 
delightful  books  on  Art  in  a  properly  warmed  atmos- 
phere (and  I  must  say  a  properly  warmed  spirit  too), 
and  looking  at  photographs  of  the  pictures  (you  can 
have  them  as  large  as  you  like,  you  know),  instead  of 
freezing  our  feet  over  the  originals,  which  half  the  time 
the  eyes  of  a  lynx  could  not  see.  But  it  is  not  always 
winter,  of  course.  And  then  I  have  lived  over  here  so 
long  that  I  have,  it  seems,  acquired  foreign  ways  that 
are  very  unpopular  at  home.  You  may  smile,  and  it  is 
too  ridiculous ;  but  it  is  so.  For  instance,  last  summer 
we  went  to  Carley  Ledge  (you  know  Carley ;  pretty 
little  place),  and  we  found  out  afterwards  that  the 
people  came  near  mobbing  us !  Not  exactly  that,  of 
course,  but  they  took  the  most  violent  dislike  to  us ; 


IX    VENICE  235 

and  why?  It  is  too  comical.  Because  we  had  inno- 
cently treated  Carley  as  we  treat  a  pretty  village  over 
here.  One  lady  said,  and,  I  am  told,  with  indignation, 
that  we  had  been  stopping,  '  more  than  once,  right  in 
the  main  street,  and  standing  there,  in  that  public  place, 
to  look  at  a  cloud  passing  over  the  mountain  !'  And 
another  reported  that  she  had  herself  discovered  us 
'  sitting  on  the  grass,  no  farther  away  from  the  main 
street  than  the  open  space  in  front  of  Deacon  Seymour's, 
just  as  though  it  was  out  in  the  country  !'  That  '  out 
in  the  country  '  is  rather  good,  isn't  it  ?  Always  that 
poor  little  main  street !" 

"  Still,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  the  cold  houses 
are  worse  than  the  village  comments,"  replied  Mrs. 
Marcy's  visitor.  "  A  New-Yorker  I  know,  a  confirmed 
European  too,  always  goes  home  to  spend  the  three 
months  of  winter.  A\rhen  he  comes  back  in  the  spring 
his  English  friends  say,  '  I  hear  you  have  had  so  many 
degrees  of  frost  over  there  —  fancy!'  —  meaning,  per- 
haps, zero  or  under.  To  which  he  assents,  but  always 
inflexibly  goes  back.  They  look  upon  him  as  a  kind 
of  Esquimau.  But  how  does  Miss  Marcy  like  exile  ?" 

"  Oh,  Claudia  is  very  fond  of  Italy.  You  have  not 
seen  her,  by-the-way,  since  she  was  a  child,  and  she  is 
now  twenty.  Do  you  find  her  altered  ?" 

"  Greatly." 

"  At  home  she  was  never  thought  pretty-^when  she 
was  younger,  I  mean.  She  was  thought  too — too  — 
vigorous  is  perhaps  the  best  word ;  she  had  not  that 
graceful  slenderness  one  expects  to  see  in  a  young  girl. 
But  over  here,  I  notice,  the  opinion  seems  to  be  differ- 
ent," continued  the  lady,  half  questioningly.  "  And, 
of  course,  too,  she  has  improved." 


236  IN    VENICE 

"  My  dear  Miss  Sophy — improved  ?  Miss  Marcy  is  a 
wonderfully  beautiful  woman." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  ;  Mr.  Lenox  thinks  so  too,  I  be- 
lieve," answered  Mrs.  Marcy,  half  pleased,  half  irritated. 
"It  seems  she  is  a  Venetian  —  that  is,  of  the  sixteenth 
century ;  and  dressed  in  dark-green  velvet,  with  those 
great  puffed  Venetian  sleeves  coming  down  over  her 
knuckles,  a  gold  chain,  and  her  hair  closely  braided,  she 
would  be,  they  tell  me,  a  perfect  Bonifazio.  In  fact, 
Mr.  Lenox  is  painting  her  as  one.  Only  he  has  to  im- 
agine the  dress." 

Mrs.  Marcy  was  a  widow,  and  fifty-five.  It  had 
pleased  her  to  hear  again  the  old  "  Miss  Sophy  "  of 
their  youth  from  Rodney  Blake ;  but  as  she  had  been 
one  of  those  tall,  slender,  faintly  lined  girls  who  are 
called  lilies,  and  who  are  associated  with  pale  blues  and 
lavender,  she  naturally  found  it  difficult  to  realize  a 
beauty,  even  if  it  was  that  of  a  niece,  so  unlike  her  own. 
Mrs.  Marcy  was  now  less  than  slender ;  the  blue  eyes 
which,  had  once  mildly  lighted  her  countenance  were 
faded.  But  she  still  remained  lily -like  and  willowy, 
and  her  attire  adapted  itself  to  that  style  ;  there  was  a 
gleam  of  the  lavender  still — she  wore  long  shawls  and 
scarfs. 

In  the  easy-chair  opposite,  Rodney  Blake  leaned  back. 
He  was  fifty-six,  long  and  thin,  with  a  permanent  ex- 
pression on  his  face  of  half-weary,  half-amused  cyni- 
cism, which,  however,  seemed  to  concern  itself  more 
with  life  in  general  than  with  people  in  particular,  and 
thus  prevented  personal  applications.  He  was  well-to- 
do,  well  dressed.  There  was  a  generally  received  le- 
gend that  he  was  rather  brilliant.  This  was  the  more 
remarkable  because  he  seldom  said  much.  But  per- 


IN    VENICE  237 

haps  that  was  the  reason.  Miss  Marcy  had  entered  as 
her  aunt  finished  her  sentence. 

"  The  sitting  is  over,  then,"  said  the  elder  lady.  "  Has 
Mr.  Lenox  gone?" 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  the  niece,  giving  her  hand  to 
Mr.  Blake  as  he  rose  to  greet  her. 

She  was,  as  he  had  said,  a  beautiful  woman.  Yet  at 
home  there  were  still  those  who  would  have  dissented 
from  this  opinion,  as,  secretly,  her  aunt  dissented.  She 
was  of  about  medium  height,  with  the  form  of  a  Juno. 
She  had  a  rich  complexion,  slowly  moving  eyes  of  deep 
brown,  and  very  thick,  curling,  low-growing  hair  of  a 
bright  gold  color,  which  showed  a  warmer  reddish  tinge 
in  the  light.  She  was  the  personification  of  healthy  life 
and  vigor,  but  not  of  the  nervous  or  active  sort ;  of  the 
reflective.  Wherever  the  sun  touched  her  it  struck  a 
color :  whether  the  red  of  cheek  or  lip,  or  the  beautiful 
tint  of  her  forehead  and  throat,  which  was  not  fair  but 
clear ;  whether  the  brown  of  her  eyes,  or  the  gold  of 
eyebrows,  eyelashes,  and  the  heavy,  low-coiled  hair. 
Her  features  were  fairly  regular,  but  not  of  the  pointed 
type ;  they  were  short  rather  than  long,  clearly,  almost 
boldly,  outlined.  Her  forehead  was  low  ;  her  mouth 
not  small,  the  lips  beautifully  cut.  She  was  attired  in 
black  velvet — she  affected  rich  materials — and  as  she 
talked  she  twisted  and  untwisted  a  string  of  large  pearls 
which  hung  loosely  round  her  throat  and  down  upon 
the  velvet  of  her  dress. 

"  Mr.  Lenox  does  not  have  to  imagine  much,  after 
all,"  observed  Mr.  Blake  in  his  slow  way  to  Mrs.  Marcy. 
"  In  velvet,  with  those  pearls,  she  does  very  well  as  it  is." 

"They  are  only  Roman  beads,"  said  Claudia.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  mean,  of  course." 


238  IN    VENICE 

"  I  had  been  telling  Mr.  Blake  that  they  say  that  if 
you  had  a  green  velvet,  with  those  big  sleeves,  you 
know,  and  your  hair  braided  close  to  the  head,  to  make 
it  look  too  small  in  comparison  with  the  shoulders,  it 
would  be  a  Bonifazio,"  explained  the  aunt. 

"  Your  pearls  are  not  so  effective  as  they  might  be, 
Miss  Marcy,"  continued  the  visitor,  scanning  her  as  she 
took  a  seat. 

"  I  do  not  wear  them  in  this  way,  but  so."  She  un- 
fastened the  clasp,  and  rewound  the  long  string  in  three 
close  rows,  one  above  the  other,  round  her  throat,  above 
the  high-coming  black  of  her  dress. 

"  That  is  better,"  said  her  critic. 

"  It  feels  like  a  piece  of  armor,  so  I  unloosen  it  as 
soon  as  I  can,"  she  answered. 

Here  the  artist  came  in,  bat  in  hand.  "  I  am  on  my 
way  home,"  he  said.  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Blake.  I 
have  only  stopped  to  ask  about  our  expedition  this 
afternoon,  Mrs.  Marcy." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  we  shall  go,"  answered  that  lady, 
"  the  day  is  so  fine.  How  are  they  at  home  this  morn- 
ing, Mr.  Lenox  ?" 

"  Elizabeth  is  quite  well,  thanks  ;  Theocritus  as  usual. 
Shall  I  order  gondolas,  then  ?" 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good ;  at  four.  Mr.  Blake  will,  I 
hope,  go  with  us." 

And  then  Mr.  Lenox  bowed,  and  withdrew. 

"  Does  the — the  idyllic  personage  accompany  us  ?" 
asked  the  gentleman  in  the  easy-chair. 

"  It  is  only  a  child  appended  to  the  name,"  said 
Claudia,  laughing.  "  For  some  reason  Mrs.  Lenox  al- 
ways pronounces  it  in  full ;  she  could  just  as  well  call 
him  Theo." 


IX    VENICE  239 

"  It  is  her  nephew,  and  she  is  devoted  to  him,"  ex- 
plained Mrs.  Marcy.  "  He  is  nearly  ten  years  old,  but 
does  not  look  more  than  five.  His  health  is  extremely 
delicate,  and  he  is  at  times  rather — rather  babyish." 

"  Peevish,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Claudia.  She  had  taken  up 
two  long  black  needles  entangled  in  a  mass  of  crimson 
worsted,  and,  disengaging  them,  was  beginning  to  knit 
another  row  on  an  unfinished  stripe.  Her  beautifully 
moulded  hands,  full  and  white,  with  one  antique  gem 
on  each,  contrasted  with  the  tint  of  the  wool.  The  thin 
fingers  of  Mrs.  Marcy  were  decked  with  fine  diamonds, 
and  diamonds  alone  ;  in  spite  of  the  "  foreign  ways"  of 
which  that  lady  had  accused  herself,  she  remained  suffi- 
ciently American  for  that.  She  could  buy  diamonds, 
and  Claudia  an  antique  ring  or  two ;  both  aunt  and 
niece  enjoyed  inherited  incomes,  that  of  Claudia  being 
comfortable,  that  of  Mrs.  Marcy  large. 

These  ladies  occupied  rooms  on  the  third  floor  of  a 
palace  on  the  Grand  Canal,  not  far  below  the  Piazzetta. 
The  palace  was  a  stately  example  of  Renaissance  archi- 
tecture, with  three  TOWS  of  majestic  polished  columns 
extending  one  above  the  other  across  its  front.  Be- 
tween these  columns  the  American  tenant,  who  had 
once  been  called  "  the  lily,"  and  her  niece,  who  was  so 
like  a  Bonifazio,  looked  out  upon  the  golden  Venetian 
light — a  light  whose  shadows  are  colors:  mother-of- 
pearl,  emerald,  orange,  amber,  and  all  the  changing 
gradations  between  them — thrown  against  and  between 
the  reds,  browns,  and  fretted  white  marbles  of  the 
buildings  rising  from  the  water ;  that  ever-moving 
water  which  mirrors  it  all — here  a  sparkling,  glancing 
surface,  there  a  mysterious  darkness,  both  of  them 
contrasting  with  the  serene  blue  of  the  sky  above, 


240  IX    VENICE 

•which  is  barred  towards  the  riva  by  the  long,  lean, 
sharply  defined  lateen  spars  of  the  moored  barks, 
and  made  even  more  deep  in  its  hue  over  the  harbor 
by  the  broad  sails  of  the  fishing-sloops  outlined  against 
it,  as  they  come  slowly  up  the  channel,  rich,  unlighted 
sheets  of  tawny  yellow  and  red,  with  a  great  cross 
vaguely  defined  upon  them. 

Next  to  the  Renaissance  palace  was  a  smaller  one, 
narrow  and  high,  of  mediaeval  Gothic,  ancient  and 
weather-stained  ;  it  had  lancet-windows,  adorned  above 
with  trefoil,  and  a  little  carved  balcony  like  old  Vene- 
tian lace  cut  in  marble.  Ilere  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lenox  oc- 
cupied the  floor  above  that  occupied  by  the  ladies  in 
the  larger  palace.  Communication  was  direct,  however, 
owing  to  a  hallway,  like  a  little  covered  bridge,  that 
crossed  the  canal  which  flowed  between — a  canal  nar- 
row, dark,  and  still,  that  worked  away  silently  all  day 
and  all  night  at  its  life-long  task  of  undermining  the 
ponderous  walls  on  each  side  ;  gaining  perhaps  a  half- 
inch  in  a  century,  together  with  the  lighter  achieve- 
ment of  eating  out  the  painted  wooden  columns  which, 
like  lances  set  upright  in  the  sand  at  a  tent's  door,  the 
old  Venetians  were  accustomed  to  plant  in  the  tide 
round  their  water-washed  entrances.  At  four  o'clock 
the  little  company  started,  the  three  from  the  Gothic 
palace  having  come  across  the  hall  bridge  to  join  the 
others.  Two  gondolas  were  in  waiting ;  as  the  after- 
noon was  warm,  they  had  light  awnings  instead  of  the 
antique  black  tops,  with  the  sombre  drapery  sweeping 
out  behind. 

"I  like  the  black  tops  better,"  observed  Claudia. 
"  Any  one  can  have  an  awning,  but  the  black  tops  are 
Venetian." 


IN    VENICE  241 

"  Tliey  can  easily  be  changed,"  said  Lenox. 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  in  this  heat,"  objected  Mrs.  Marcy. 
"  We  should  stifle.  Mr.  Blake,  shall  you  and  I,  as  the 
selfish  elders,  take  this  one,  and  let  the  younger  people 
go  together  in  that  ?" 

"  I  want  to  go  in  the  one  with  the  red  awning — the 
bright  red,"  said  Theocritus.  This  was  the  one  Mrs. 
Marcy  had  selected. 

"  No,  no,  my  boy  ;  the  other  will  do  quite  as  well  for 
you,"  said  Lenox. 

"  It  won't,"  replied  the  child,  in  a  decided  little 
voice. 

"  It  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence,"  graciously 
interposed  Mrs.  Marcy,  signalling  to  the  other  gondola, 
and,  with  Blake's  assistance,  taking  her  place  within  it. 

Mr.  Lenox  glanced  at  his  wife.  She  was  occupied  in 
folding  a  shawl  closely  over  the  boy's  little  overcoat. 
"  Come,  then,"  he  said,  giving  his  hand  first  to  Miss 
Marcy,  then  to  his  wife  and  the  child.  The  gondolas 
floated  out  on  the  broad  stream. 

Claudia  talked ;  she  talked  well,  and  took  the  Vene- 
tian tone.  "The  only  thing  that  jars  upon  me,"  she 
said,  after  a  while,  "  is  that  these  Venetians  of  to-day — 
those  men  and  women  we  are  passing  on  the  riva  now, 
for  instance — do  not  appreciate  in  the  least  their  won- 
derful water-city — scarcely  know  what  it  is." 

u  They  don't  study  '  Venice  '  because  they  are  Ven- 
ice— isn't  that  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lenox.  She  had  soothed 
the  little  boy  into  placidity,  and  he  sat  beside  her  quiet- 
ly, with  one  gloved  hand  in  hers,  a  small  muffled  figure, 
with  a  pale  face  whose  delicate  skin  was  lined  like  that 
of  an  old  man.  His  eyes  were  narrow,  deep-set,  and 
dark  under  his  faintly  outlined  fair  eyebrows  ;  his  thin 


242  IN    VEXICE 

hair  so  light  in  hue  and  cut  so  closely  to  his  head  that 
it  could  scarcely  be  distinguished. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Claudia,  answering  Mrs.  Lenox's 
remark  — "  at  least,  I  hope  the  old  Venetians  were 
not  so ;  I  like  to  think  that  they  felt,  down  to  their 
very  finger-tips,  all  the  richness  and  beauty  about 
them." 

"  You  may  be  sure  the  feeling  was  unconscious  com- 
pared with  ours,"  replied  Mrs.  Lenox.  "They  did  not 
consult  authorities  about  the  pictures  ;  they  were  the 
pictures.  They  did  not  study  history  ;  they  made  it. 
They  did  not  read  romances  ;  they  lived  them." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  lived  then,"  murmured  Miss 
Marcy,  her  eyes  resting  thoughtfully  on  the  red  tower 
of  San  Giorgio,  rising  from  the  blue.  No  veil  obscured 
the  beautiful  tints  of  her  face ;  Claudia's  complexion 
could  brave  the  brightest  light,  the  wind,  and  the  sun. 
The  dark-blue  plume  of  the  round  hat  she  wore  curled 
down  over  the  rippled  sunny  braids  of  her  hair.  Mr. 
Lenox  was  looking  at  her.  But  Mr.  Lenox  was  often 
looking  at  her. 

"  That  would  not  be  at  all  nice  for  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Lenox,  in  her  pleasant  voice,  answering  the  young  lady's 
wish.  "  If  you,  Miss  Marcy,  can  step  back  into  the  fif- 
teenth century  without  trouble,  we  cannot ;  Stephen 
and  I  are  very  completely  of  this  poor  nineteenth." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Claudia,  slowly ;  she  looked  at 
"  Stephen  "  with  meditative  eyes.  "  He  could  have  been 
one  of  the  soldiers.  You  remember  that  Venetian  por- 
trait in  the  Uffizi  at  Florence — General  Gattamelata  ? 
Mr.  Lenox  does  not  look  like  it ;  but  in  armor  he  would 
look  quite  as  well." 

"  I  don't  remember  it,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox,  turning  to 


IN    VENICE  243 

see  why  Theocritus  was  beating  upon  her  knees  with 
his  right  fist. 

"  You  must  remember — it  is  so  superb  !"  said  Clau- 
dia. 

"  I  want  to  sit  on  the  other  side,"  announced  Theoc- 
ritus. 

"When  we  come  back,  dear.  See,  the  church  is 
quite  near ;  we  shall  soon  be  there  now,"  answered  his 
aunt. 

"  You  remember  it,  don't  you  ?"  said  Claudia  to 
Lenox. 

"  Perfectly." 

"  No — now"  piped  Theocritus.  "  The  wind  is  blow- 
ing down  my  back." 

"  If  he  is  cold,  Stephen — "  said  Mrs.  Lenox. 

"  I  will  change  places  with  him,"  replied  her  hus- 
band. "  Do  not  move,  Miss  Marcy." 

"  No ;  Aunt  Lizzie  must  go  too  !"  said  the  boy.  He 
had  wrinkled  up  his  little  face  until  he  looked  like  an 
aged  dwarf  in  a  temper ;  he  stretched  back  his  lips  over 
his  little  square  white  teeth,  and  glared  at  his  uncle  and 
Miss  Marcy. 

"  Let  me  change — do,"  said  Claudia,  rising  as  she 
spoke.  And  Mrs.  Lenox  accepted  the  offer. 

"  When  you  have  finished  my  portrait,  suppose  you 
paint  yourself  as  a  fifteenth-century  Venetian  general," 
continued  Miss  Marcy,  taking  up  again  the  thread  of 
conversation  which  had  been  broken  by  Theocritus's  ob- 
stinacy. "  The  portrait  of  a  man  painted  by  himself 
is  always  interesting ;  you  can  see  then  what  he  thinks 
he  is." 

"  And  is  not  ?"  said  Lenox. 

"  Possibly.     Still,  what  he  might  be.     It  is  his  ideal 


244  IN   VENICE 

view  of  himself,  and  I  believe  in  ideals.  It  is  only  our 
real,  purified — what  we  shall  all  attain,  I  hope,  in  an- 
other world." 

Thus  she  talked  on.  And  the  man  to  whom  she 
talked  thought  it  a  loveliness  of  nature  that  she  passed 
so  naturally  and  unnoticingly  over  the  demeanor  of  the 
spoiled  child  who  accompanied  them.  Mrs.  Lenox  could, 
for  the  present  take  no  further  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion, as  Theocritus  had  demanded  that  she  should  re- 
late to  him  the  legend  of  St.  Mark,  St.  George,  and  St. 
Theodore  climbing  down  from  their  places  over  the 
church  porch,  the  palace  window,  and  the  crocodile 
column  to  fight  the  demons  of  the  lagoons.  This  she 
did,  but  in  so  low  a  tone  that  the  conversation  of  the 
others  was  not  interrupted. 

They  reached  the  island  and  landed  ;  Mrs.  Marcy  and 
Blake  were  already  there,  sitting  on  the  sun  -  warmed 
steps  of  the  church  whose  smooth  white  facade  and 
red  campanile  are  so  conspicuous  from  Venice.  "  We 
•were  discussing  the  shape  of  the  prow  of  the  gondola," 
said  Mrs.  Marcy,  as  they  came  up.  "  To  me  it  looks 
like  the  neck  of  a  swan."  Mrs.  Marcy  never  sought  for 
new  terms ;  if  the  old  ones  were  only  poetical — she  was 
a  stickler  for  that — she  used  them  as  they  were,  con- 
tentedly. 

Mr.  Blake,  who  always  took  the  key-note  of  the  con- 
versation in  which  he  found  himself,  advanced  the 
equally  veteran  comparison  of  the  neck  of  a  violin. 

"  It  is  the  shining  blade  of  St.  Theodore,  the  patron 
of  the  gondolas,"  suggested  Claudia. 

"  To  me  it  looks  a  good  deal  like  the  hammer  of  a 
sewing-machine,"  observed  Mrs.  Lenox,  lightly.  This 
was  so  true  that  they  all  had  to  laugh. 


IN   VENICE  245 

"  But  this  will  never  do,  Mrs.  Lenox,"  said  Blake, 
turning  to  look  at  her  as  she  stood  on  the  broad  mar- 
ble step,  holding  the  little  boy's  hand ;  "  you  will  de- 
stroy all  our  carefully  prepared  atmosphere  with  your 
modern  terms.  Here  we  have  all  been  reading  up  for 
this  expedition,  and  we  know  just  what  Ruskin  thinks ; 
wait  a  bit,  and  you  will  hear  us  talk !  And  not  one  will 
be  so  rude  as  to  recognize  a  single  adjective." 

"You  admire  him,  then — Ruskin?"  said  the  lady. 

"  Admire  ?  That  is  n.ot  the  word ;  he  is  the  divinest 
madman !  Ah,  but  he  makes  us  work !  In  some  al- 
ways inaccessible  spot  he  discovers  an  inscrutably  beau- 
tiful thing,  and  then  he  goes  to  work  and  writes  about 
it  fiercely,  with  all  his  nouns  in  capitals,  and  his  adjec- 
tives after  the  nouns  instead  of  before  them — which 
naturally  awes  us.  But  what  produces  an  even  deeper 
thrill  is  his  rich  way  of  spreading  his  possessive  cases 
over  two  words  instead  of  one,  as,  '  In  the  eager  heart 
of  him,'  instead  of  « In  his  eager  heart.'  This  cows  us 
completely." 

"  I  want  to  go  in  the  church.  I  don't  want  to  stay 
out  here  any  longer,"  announced  Theocritus.  And,  as 
his  aunt  let  him  have  his  way,  the  others  followed  her, 
and  they  all  went  in  together. 

Compared  with  the  warm  sunshine  without,  the  silent 
aisles  seemed  cool.  After  ten  minutes  or  so  Mrs.  Marcy 
and  Blake  came  out,  and  seated  themselves  on  the  step 
again.  "  You  have  known  her  for  some  time  ?"  Blake 
was  saying. 

"  Mrs.  Lenox  ?  No  ;  only  since  we  first  met  here,  six 
— I  mean  seven — weeks  ago.  But  Stephen  Lenox  I 
have  always  known,  or  rather  known  about ;  he  is  a 
distant  connection  of  mine.  His  history  has  been  rather 


246  IN    VENICE 

unusual.  His  mother,  a  widow,  managed  to  educate 
him,  but  that  was  all;  they  were  really  very  poor,  and 
Stephen  was  hard  at  work  before  he  was  twenty.  He 
had  some  sort  of  a  clerkship  in  an  iron-mill,  and  was 
kept  at  it,  I  was  told,  twelve  and  thirteen  hours  a  day. 
Before  he  was  twenty-two  he  married.  He  worked 
harder  than  ever  then,  although  he  had,  I  believe,  in 
time  a  better  place.  His  wife  had  no  money,  either, 
and  she  was  not  strong.  Their  two  little  children  died. 
Well,  after  twelve  years  of  this,  most  unexpectedly,  by 
the  will  of  an  uncle  by  marriage,  he  came  into  quite  a 
nice  little  fortune;  the  uncle  said,  I  was  told,  that  he 
admired  a  man  who,  in  these  days,  had  never  had  or 
asked  for  the  least  help  from  his  relatives.  And  so 
Stephen  could  at  last  do  as  he  pleased,  and  very  soon 
afterwards  they  came  abroad.  For  he  had  been  an 
artist  at  heart  all  this  time,  it  seems — at  least,  he  has  a 
great  liking  for  painting,  and  even,  I  think,  some  skill." 

"  I  doubt  if  he  is  a  creative  artist,"  answered  Blake. 
"  He  is  too  well  balanced  for  that — a  strong,  quiet  fel- 
low. His  wife  is  of  about  his  age,  I  presume  ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  is  thirty -six,  and  she  the  same.  They  have 
been  over  here  already  nearly  two  years.  She  is  a  very 
nice  little  woman  "  (Mrs.  Lenox  was  tall  and  slender ; 
but  Mrs.  Marcy  always  patronized  Mrs.  Lenox),  "al- 
though one  does  get  extremely  tired  of  that  spoiled  boy 
she  drags  about.  Do  you  know,"  added  the  lady,  deep- 
ly, "  I  feel  sure  it  would  be  much  better  for  Elizabeth 
Lenox  if  she  would  remember  her  present  circumstances 
more  ;  there  is  no  longer  any  necessity  for  an  invariable 
untrimmed  gray  gown." 

"  Doesn't  she  dress  well  ?"  said  Blake.  "  I  thought 
she  always  looked  very  neat." 


IN    VENICE  247 

"  That  is  the  very  word — neat.  But  there  is  no  flow, 
no  richness.  She  has  been  rather  pretty  once  ;  that  is, 
in  that  style — gray  eyes  and  dark  hair ;  and  she  might 
be  so  still  if  she  had  the  proper  costumes.  Of  course, 
going  about  Venice  in  this  way  one  does  not  want  to 
dress  much ;  but  she  has  not  even  got  anything  put 
away." 

"  If  one  does  not  wear  it,  what  difference  does  that 
make  ?"  asked  the  gentleman. 

"  All  the  difference  in  the  world !"  replied  Mrs.  Marcy. 
"  Let  me  tell  you  that  the  very  step  of  a  woman  who 
knows  she  has  two  or  three  nice  dresses  in  the  bottom 
of  her  trunk  is  different  from  that  of  a  woman  who 
knows  she  hasn't." 

"  But  perhaps  Mrs.  Lenox  does  not  know  that  she 
'  hasn't,'  "  remarked  Blake.  This,  however,  went  over 
Mrs.  Marcy's  head. 

Within,  the  others  were  looking  at  the  beautiful 
Tintorettos  in  the  choir.  After  a  while  the  ill-favored 
but  gravely  serene  young  monk  who  had  admitted  them 
approached  and  mentioned  solemnly  "  the  view  from 
the  campanile  ;"  this  not  because  he  cared  whether  they 
went  up  or  not,  but  simply  as  part  of  his  duty. 

"  I  should  like  to  go,"  said  Claudia ;  "  I  love  to  look 
off  over  the  lagoons." 

They  turned  to  leave  the  choir.  "/  don't  want  to 
go,"  said  Theocritus,  holding  back.  "  I  want  to  stay 
here  and  see  that  picture  some  more ;  and  I'm  going  to !" 

This  time  Miss  Marcy  did  not  yield  her  wish.  "  Do 
not  come  with  me,"  she  said  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lenox; 
"  it  is  not  in  the  least  necessary.  I  have  been  up  be- 
fore, and  know  the  way.  I  will  not  be  gone  fifteen 
minutes." 


248  IN    VENICE 

"  I  really  think  that  he  ought  not  to  climb  all  those 
stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox  to  her  husband,  looking  at  the 
child,  who  had  gone  back  to  his  station  before  the 
picture. 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Lenox.  Then,  after  a 
moment,  "  I  will  stay  with  him,"  he  added ;  "  you  go 
up  with  Miss  Marcy." 

"  I  want  Aunt  Lizzie  to  stay — not  Uncle  Stephen  !" 
called  the  boy,  overhearing  this,  and  turning  round  to 
scowl  at  them. 

"  He  will  not  be  good  with  any  one  but  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Lenox,  in  a  low  tone.  "  You  two  go  up  ;  I  will 
wait  for  you  here." 

"  The  question  is,  Is  he  ever  good,  even  with  her  ?" 
said  Claudia,  following  Lenox  up  the  long  flight  of 
steps  that  winds  in  square  turns  up,  up,  to  the  top  of 
the  campanile. 

"  She  says  he  is  sometimes  very  sweet  and  docile — 
even  affectionate,"  replied  Lenox.  "  She  thinks  he  has 
quite  a  remarkable  mind,  and  will  distinguish  himself 
some  day  if  we  can  only  tide  his  poor,  puny  little 
body  safely  over  its  childish  weakness,  and  give  him 
a  fair  start." 

"  She  is  very  fond  of  him." 

"  Yes  ;  his  mother  was  her  dearest  friend,  his  father 
her  only  brother." 

Claudia  considered  that  she  had  now  given  sufficient 
time  to  this  subject  (not  an  interesting  one),  and  they 
talked  of  other  things,  but  in  short  sentences,  for  they 
were  still  ascending.  Twice  she  stopped  to  rest  for  a 
minute  or  two ;  then  Lenox  came  down  a  step,  and 
stood  beside  her.  There  was  no  danger;  still,  if  a 
person  should  be  seized  with  giddiness,  the  thought 


IN   VENICE  249 

of  the  near  open  well  in  the  centre,  going  darkly  down, 
was  a  dizzy  one. 

At  the  top  they  had  the  view  :  wide  green  flatness 
towards  the  east,  northeast,  southeast,  with  myriad 
gleaming,  silvery  channels ;  the  Lido  and  the  soft  line 
of  the  Adriatic  beyond ;  towns  shining  whitely  in  the 
north  ;  to  the  west,  Venice,  with  its  long  bridge  stretch- 
ing to  the  mainland ;  in  port,  at  their  feet,  a  large  Ital- 
ian man-of-war;  on  the  south  side,  the  point  of  the 
Giudecca. 

" '  A  Saint-BIaise,  a  la  Zuecca, 

Vous  etiez  bien  aise ; 

A  Sa'mt-Blaise,  a  la  Zuecca, 

Nous  etions  bien  la  !'  " 

quoted  Claudia.  "  I  chant  it  because  I  have  just  dis- 
covered that  the  Zuecca  means  the  Giudecca  yonder." 

"  What  is  the  verse  ?"  said  Lenox. 

"  Don't  you  know  it  ?     It  is  Musset." 

"  I  have  read  but  little,  Miss  Marcy." 

"  You  have  not  had  time  to  read,"  said  Claudia,  with 
a  shade  of  emphasis;  "your  time  has  been  given  to 
better  things." 

"  Yes,  to  iron  rails  !" 

"  To  energy  and  to  duty,"  she  answered.  Then  she 
turned  the  subject,  and  talked  of  the  tints  on  the 
water. 

Down  below,  in  the  still  church,  the  little  boy  sat 
beside  his  aunt,  her  arm  round  him,  his  head  leaning 
against  her.  The  monk  had  withdrawn. 

"  The  angels  were  all  there,  no  doubt,"  she  was 
saying ;  "  but  only  a  few  painters  have  ever  tried  to 
represent  them  in  the  picture.  It  is'  not  easy  to  paint 
an  angel  if  you  have  never  seen  one." 


250  IN   VENICE 

"  Pooh  !  I  have  seen  them,"  said  Theocritus,  "  hun- 
dreds of  times.  I  have  seen  their  wings.  They  come 
floating  in  when  the  sunshine  comes  through  a  crack — 
all  dusty,  you  know.  How  many  of  them  there  do  you 
suppose  saw  the  angels  ?  Not  that  big  girl  with  the 
plate,  anyhow,  /  know  !"  Thus  they  talked  on. 

When  the  two  from  the  campanile  returned,  and 
they  went  out  to  embark,  a  slight  breeze  had  risen. 
The  little  boy  lifted  his  shoulders  uneasily,  and  seemed 
almost  to  shiver.  Mrs.  Lenox  felt  of  his  head  and 
hands.  "I  think  I  had  better  take  him  back  in  one 
of  those  covered  gondolas,  Stephen,"  she  said.  "  He 
seems  to  be  cold ;  he  might  have  a  chill." 

"  Surely  it  is  very  warm,"  said  Mrs.  Marcy. 

"  Yes,  but  he  is  so  delicate,"  replied  the  other  lady. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Mrs.  Lenox,"  said  Claudia. 

"  Oh  no ;  the  gondolas  here  are  the  small  ones,  I  see, 
and  Stephen  could  not  come  with  us.  Do  not  leave 
him  to  go  back  alone ;  if  one  of  us  sees  to  the  child, 
that  is  enough." 

It  ended,  therefore,  according  to  her  arrangement : 
she  went  back  with  Theocritus  in  a  covered  gondola, 
Mrs.  Marcy  and  Blake  returned  as  they  had  come, 
while  Claudia  and  Lenox  had  the  third  boat  to  them- 
selves. 

Rodney  Blake  being  added,  this  little  party  contin- 
ued its  Venetian  life.  Lenox  made  some  progress  with 
his  portrait  of  Claudia,  but  it  was  not  thought,  at  least 
by  the  others,  that  his  wife  made  any  with  Theocritus, 
that  child  remaining  as  delicate  as  ever,  and,  if  possible, 
more  troublesome.  In  Mrs.  Marcy's  mind  there  had 
sprung  up,  since  Mr.  Blake's  arrival,  an  aftermath  of 
interest  in  Venetian  art  and  architecture  which  was 


IN   VENICE  251 

richer  even  than  the  first  crop ;  she  went  contentedly 
to  see  the  pictures,  churches,  and  palaces  a  fourth  and 
even  fifth  time. 

Claudia  had  a  great  liking  for  St.  Mark's.  "But 
who  has  not?"  said  Mrs.  Marcy,  reproachfully,  when 
Blake  commented  upon  the  younger  lady's  fancy. 

"  Yes ;  but  it  is  not  every  liking  that  is  strong  enough 
to  take  its  possessor  there  every  day  through  eight 
long,  slow  weeks,"  answered  the  gentleman. 

"  Not  so  slow,"  said  Claudia.  "  But  how  do  you 
know  ?  You  have  been  here  through  only  one  of 
them." 

"  That  leanest  mosaic  in  the  central  dome  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine;  he  has  told  me  many  things  in  his 
time  (I  am  an  inveterate  Venetian  lounger,  you  know), 
bending  down  from  his  curved  abode,  his  glassy  eyes 
on  mine,  and  a  long,  thin  finger  pointed.  Be  careful ; 
he  has  noticed  you." 

Several  days  later,  strolling  into  the  church,  he  found 
her  there.  "As  usual,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  as  usual,"  she  answered.  Miss  Marcy  liked 
Blake ;  his  slow  remarks  often  amused  her.  And  she 
liked  to  be  amused — perhaps  because  she  was  not  one 
of  those  young  ladies  who  find  everything  amusing. 
She  was  sitting  at  the  base  of  the  last  of  the  great  pil- 
lars of  the  nave,  where  she  could  see  the  north  transept 
with  the  star-lights  of  the  chapel  at  the  end,  the  old 
pulpit  of  colored  marbles  with  its  fretted  top  and  angel, 
and  the  deep,  gold-lined  dimness  of  the  choir-dome, 
into  which  the  first  horizontal  ray  of  sunset  light  was 
now  stealing  —  a  light  which  would  soon  turn  into 
miraculous  splendor  its  whole  expanse. 

"  It  always  seems  to  me  like  a  cave  set  with  gold  and 


2o2  IN   VENICE 

gems,"  said  Blake,  taking  a  seat  beside  her.  ""And, 
in  reality,  that  is  what  it  is,  you  know — a  wonderful 
robbers'  cavern.  As  somebody  has  said,  it  is  the 
church  of  pirates  —  of  the  greatest  sea-robbers  the 
world  has  ever  known  ;  and  they  have  adorned  it  with 
the  magnificent  mass  of  treasure  they  stole  from  the 
whole  Eastern  hemisphere." 

"  I  wish  they  had  stolen  a  little  for  me — one  of 
those  Oriental  chains,  for  instance.  But  what  pleases 
me  best  here  is  the  light.  It  isn't  the  bright,  vast 
clearness  of  St.  Peter's  that  makes  one's  small  sins  of 
no  sort  of  consequence ;  it  isn't  the  sombreness  of  the 
Duomo  at  Florence,  where  one  soon  feels  such  a  dread- 
ful repentance  that  the  new  virtue  becomes  acute  de- 
pression. It  is  a  darkness,  I  admit,  but  of  such  a 
warm,  rich  hue  that  one  feels  sumptuous  just  by  sit- 
ting in  it.  I  do  believe  that  if  some  of  our  thin,  anx- 
ious-faced American  women  could  only  be  induced 
to  come  and  sit  here  quietly  several  hours  a  day  they 
would  soon  grow  serene  and  physically  opulent,  like — " 

"  Like  yourself  ?" 

"  Like  the  women  of  Veronese.  (Of  course  I  shall 
have  to  admit  that  I  do  not  need  this  process.  Unfort- 
unately, I  love  it.)  But  those  Veronese  pictures,  Mr. 
Blake — after  all,  what  do  they  tell  us  ?  Blue  sky  and 
balconies,  feasts  and  brocades,  pages  and  dogs,  colors 
and  splendor,  and  those  great  fair  women,  with  no  ex- 
pression in  their  faces — what  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

"  Simply  beauty." 

"  Beauty  without  mind,  then." 

"  A  picture  does  not  need  mind.  But,  to  be  worth 
anything,  beauty  it  must  have." 

"  I  don't  know ;  a  picture  is  a  sort  of  companion. 


IN    VENICE  253 

One  of  those  pictures  would  not  be  that ;  you  might  as 
well  have  a  beautiful  idiot." 

"  Ah,  but  a.  picture  is  silent,"  replied  Blake. 

Claudia  laughed.  "  You  are  incorrigible."  Then, 
going  back  to  her  first  subject,  "  I  wish  Mrs.  Lenox 
would  come  here  more,"  she  said. 

"  You  think  she  needs  this  enriching  process  you 
have  suggested  ?" 

"  In  one  way — yes.  All  this  beauty  here  in  Venice 
is  so  much  to  her  husband  •,  while  she — is  forever  with 
that  child  !" 

"  But  she  does  not  keep  him  from  the  beauty." 

"  No ;  but  she  might  make  it  so  much  more  to  him 
if  she  would." 

"  Why  don't  you  suggest  it  to  her  ?" 

"  There  is  no  use.  She  does  not  understand  me,  I 
think.  We  speak  a  different  language." 

"  That  may  be.    But  I  fancy  she  understands  you." 

"  Perhaps  she  does,"  answered  Claudia,  with  the  un- 
troubled frankness  which  was  one  of  her  noticeable 
traits.  She  spoke  as  though  she  thought,  indeed,  that 
Claudia  Marcy's  nature  was  a  thing  which  Mrs.  Lenox, 
or  any  one,  might  observe.  Claudia  rather  admired  her 
nature.  It  was  not  perfect,  of  course,  but  at  least  it  was 
large  in  its  boundaries,  and  above  the  usual  feminine 
pettinesses ;  she  felt  a  calm  pride  in  that.  She  was 
silent  for  a  while.  The  first  sunset  ray  had  now  been 
joined  by  others,  and  together  they  had  lighted  up  one- 
half  of  the  choir-dome ;  its  gold  was  all  awake  and 
glistening  superbly,  and  the  great  mosaic  figure  en- 
throned there  began  to  glow  with  a  solemn,  mysterious 
life. 

"  Men  should  not  marry  until  they  are  at  least  thirty, 


254  IN    VENICE 

I  think,"  resumed  Claudia ;  "  and  especially  those  of 
the  imaginative  or  artistic  temperament.  Three-quar- 
ters of  the  incongruous  marriages  one  sees  were  made 
when  the  husband  was  very  young.  It  is  not  the  wife's 
fault ;  at  the  time  of  the  marriage  she  is  generally  the 
superior,  the  generous  one ;  the  benefit  is  conferred  by 
her.  But — she  does  not  advance,  and  he  does." 

"What  would  you  propose  in  the  way  of  —  of  an 
amelioration  ?"  asked  her  listener. 

"  There  can,  of  course,  be  no  amelioration  in  actual 
cases.  But  there  might  be  a  prevention.  I  think  .that 
a  law  could  be  passed— such  as  now  exists,  for  instance, 
against  the  marriage  of  minors.  If  a  man  could  not 
marry  until  he  was  thirty  or  older,  he  would  at  that 
time  naturally  select  a  wife  who  was  ten  years  or  so  his 
junior  rather  than  one  of  his  own  age." 

"  And  the  women  of  thirty  ?" 

"  They  would  be  already  married  to  the  men  of  fifty, 
you  know." 

Here  a  figure  emerging  from  the  heavy  red-brown 
shadows  of  the  north  aisle,  and  seeming  to  bring  some 
of  them  with  it,  as  it  advanced,  crossed  the  billowy 
pavement,  and  stopped  before  them.  It  was  Mr.  Lenox. 
He  took  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  Blake,  and  they 
talked  for  a  while  of  the  way  the  chocolate-hued  walls 
met  the  gold  of  the  domes  solidly,  without  shading,  and 
of  the  total  absence  of  white — two  of  the  marked  feat- 
ures of  the  rich  interior  of  the  old  pirate  cathedral.  At 
length  Blake  rose,  giving  up  his  place  beside  Miss  Marcy 
to  the  younger  man.  "  I  think  we  have  still  a  half-hour 
before  that  jailer  of  a  janitor  jangles  his  keys,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes ;  but  for  the  men  of  fifty  it  is  time  to  be  go- 


IN   VENICE  255 

ing,"  answered  Blake.  "  They  take  cold  rather  easily, 
you  know,  those  poor  fellows  of  fifty." 

He  went  away.  Claudia  and  Lenox  remained  until 
the  keys  jangled. 

Every  day  the  weather  and  the  water-city  grew  more 
divinely  fair.  June  began.  And  now  even  Mrs.  Marcy 
saw  no  objection  to  their  utilizing  the  moonlight,  and 
no  longer  spoke  of  "  wraps."  The  evenings  were 
haunted  by  music ;  everybody  seemed  to  be  floating 
about  singing  or  touching  guitars.  The  effect  of  the 
minglad  light  and  shadows  across  the  fronts  of  the  pal- 
aces was  enchanting ;  they  could  not  say  enough  in  its 
praise. 

"  Still,  do  you  know  sometimes  I  would  give  it  all 
for  the  fresh  odor  of  the  fields  at  home,  in  the  country, 
and  the  old  scent  of  lilacs,"  said  Mrs.  Lenox. 

"  Do  you  care  for  lilacs  ?"  said  Claudia.  "  If  you  had 
said  roses — " 

"  No,  I  mean  lilacs — the  simple  country  lilacs.  And  I 
want  to  see  some  currant  bushes,  too  ;  yes,  and  even  an 
old  wooden  garden  fence,"  replied  Mrs.  Lenox,  laugh- 
ing, but  nevertheless  as  if  she  meant  what  she  said. 
She  went  with  them  only  that  once  in  the  evening,  for 
when  she  reached  home  she  found  that  the  little  boy 
had  been  wakeful,  and  that  he  had  refused  to  go  to 
sleep  again  because  she  was  not  there.  After  this  the 
others  went  without  her  in  a  gondola  holding  four.  At 
last,  although  the  moonlight  lingers  longer  in  Venice 
than  anywhere  else,  there  was,  for  that  month  at  least, 
no  more.  Yet  still  the  evening  air  was  delicious,  and 
the  music  did  not  cease ;  the  effect  of  the  shadows  was 
even  more  marvellous  than  the  mingled  light  and  shade 
had  been.  They  continued  to  go  out  and  float  about 


256  IN    VENICE 

for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  warm,  peopled  darkness.  They 
went  also,  but  by  daylight,  to  Torcello,  and  this  time 
Theocritus  was  of  the  party.  During  half  of  the  day 
he  was  more  despotic  than  he  had  ever  been,  but  later 
he  seemed  very  tired ;  he  slept  in  his  aunt's  arms  all 
the  way  home.  Once  she  made  an  effort  to  transfer 
him  to  her  husband,  as  the  weight  of  his  little  muffled 
figure  lay  heavily  on  her  slender  arm ;  but  Theocritus 
was  awake  immediately,  and  began  to  beat  off  his  un- 
cle's hands  with  all  his  might. 

"Do  let  me  take  him,  Elizabeth;  he  will  soon  fall 
asleep  again,"  said  Lenox,  lie  looked  annoyed.  "You 
are  overtaxing  your  strength  ;  I  can  see  that  you  are 
tired  out." 

"  It  will  not  harm  me ;  I  know  when  I  am  really  too 
tired,"  answered  his  wife.  She  gave  him  a  little  trust- 
ing smile  as  she  spoke,  and  his  frown  passed  off. 

Thev  were  all  together  in  one  of  the  large  gondolas ; 
Blake  noted  this  little  side-scene. 

That  night  Theocritus  had  a  slight  attack  of  fever. 
Mrs.  Lenox  said  that  it  came  from  over -fatigue,  and 
that  he  must  not  go  on  any  of  the  longer  expeditions. 
When  they  went  to  Murano,  therefore,  and  down  to 
Chioggia,  she  did  not  accompany  them,  but  remained  at 
home  with  her  charge. 

Mrs.  Marcy  was  enjoying  this  last  month  in  Venice 
greatly.  "  Naturally,  it  is  much  pleasanter  when  one 
has  some  one  to  attend  to  one,  and  one  too  who  knows 
one's  tastes  and  looks  after  one's  little  comforts,"  she 
remarked  to  her  niece,  with  some  intricacy  of  imper- 
sonal pronouns.  The  lily  did  not  observe  that  the  at- 
tentions she  found  so  agreeable  were  being  offered  to 
her  niece  also  by  another  impersonal  pronoun.  As  she 


IX    VENICE  257 

would  herself  have  said,  "naturally,"  when  they  went 
here  and  there  together,  the  two  elders  often  sat  down 
to  rest  awhile  when  Claudia  and  Lenox  did  not  feel  the 
need  of  it. 

"  Of  course,  with  her  beauty,  her  attractive  qualities, 
and  her  fortune,  Miss  Marcy  has  had  many  suitors," 
said  Blake  to  the  aunt  during  one  of  these  rests. 

"  Several,"  answered  that  lady,  moderately.  "  But 
Claudia  is  not  at  all  susceptible.  Neither  is  she  so — 
so  generally  attractive  as  you  might  suppose.  She  has 
too  little  thought  for  the  opinions  of  others.  She  says, 
for  instance,  just  what  she  thinks,  and  that,  you  know, 
is  seldom  agreeable." 

"  True  ;  we  much  prefer  that  people  should  say  what 
they  don't.  I  have  myself  noticed  some  plainly  evi- 
dent faults  in  her  :  a  most  impolitic  honesty ;  and, 
when  stirred,  an  impulsiveness  which  is  sure  to  be 
unremunerative  in  the  long-run.  I  should  say,  too, 
that  she  had  an  empyrean  sort  of  pride." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lily,  not  knowing  what  he  meant, 
but  concluding  on  the  whole  that  he  spoke  in  repro- 
bation. "  As  I  said  before,  she  has  not  quite  enough 
of  that  true  feminine  softness  one  likes  so  much  to 
see — I  mean,  of  course,  in  a  woman." 

"  Her  pride  will  be  her  bane  yet.  It  will  make  her 
blind  to  the  most  obvious  pitfall.  However,  I'll  back 
her  courage  against  it  when  once  she  sees  where  she 
has  dropped." 

"  What  ?"  said  the  lily. 

"  She  will  in  time  learn  from  you  ;  she  could  not 
follow  a  more  lovely  example,"  said  Blake,  coming 
back  from  his  reflections. 

Towards  the  last  of   June   a   long   expedition  was 

17 


258  IN  .VENICE 

planned,  an  expedition  into  "  Titian's  country,"  which 
was  to  last  three  days.  This  little  pilgrimage  had 
been  talked  about  for  a  long  time,  Mrs.  Lenox  being 
as  much  interested  in  it  as  the  others.  Whether  she 
would  have  had  the  courage  to  take  Theocritus,  even 
in  his  best  estate,  is  a  question  ;  but  after  the  time 
was  finally  set  and  all  the  arrangements  made,  his  worst 
asserted  itself,  and  so  markedly  that  it  was  plain  to  all 
that  she  could  not  go.  Something  was  said  about  post- 
ponement, but  it  was  equally  plain  that  if  they  were  to 
go  at  all  they  should  go  at  once,  as  the  weather  was 
rapidly  approaching  a  too  great  heat.  Claudia  wished 
particularly  to  take  this  little  journey ;  she  had  set  her 
heart  upon  seeing  the  Titians  and  reputed  Titians  said 
to  be  still  left  in  that  unvisited  neighborhood.  Blake 
asserted  that  she  even  expected  to  discover  one.  It 
was  next  proposed  (although  rather  faintly)  that  Mr. 
Lenox  should  be  excused  from  the  pilgrimage.  But 
it  could  not  be  denied  that  the  little  boy  had  been  quite 
as  ill  (and  irritable)  several  times  before  in  Venice,  and 
that  he  had  always  recovered  in  a  day  or  two.  Not 
that  Mrs.  Lenox  denied  it ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was 
the  one  to  mention  it.  She  urged  her  husband's  going ; 
it  was  the  excursion  of  all  others  to  please  him  the 
most.  It  ended  in  his  consenting ;  it  seemed,  indeed, 
too  much  to  give  up  for  so  slight  a  cause. 

"  She  looks  a  little  anxious,"  observed  Blake,  as  they 
waited  for  him  in  the  gondola  which  was  to  take  them 
to  the  railway  station.  Lenox  had  said  good-bye  to  her, 
and  was  now  coming  down  the  long  stairway  within,  while 
she  had  stepped  out  on  her  balcony  to  see  them  start. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  Mrs.  Marcy.  "  To  me  she 
always  looks  just  the  same,  always  so  unmoved." 


IN   VENICE  259 

Lenox  now  came  out,  and  the  gondola  started.  Clau- 
dia looked  back  and  waved  her  hand,  Mrs.  Lenox  re- 
turning the  salutation. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  at  eleven  o'clock, 
a  gondola  from  the  railway  station  stopped  at  the  larger 
palace's  lower  door,  and  three  persons  ascended  the 
dimly  lighted  stairs. 

At  the  top  Mrs.  Lenox's  servant  was  waiting  for 
them.  "  Oh,  where  is  signore  ?  Is  he  not  with  you  ? 
He  has  not  come  ?  Oh,  the  poor  signora — may  the 
sweet  Madonna  help  her  now  !"  cried  the  girl,  with 
tears  in  her  sympathetic  Italian  eyes.  "  The  poor 
little  boy  is  dead." 

They  rushed  up  the  higher  stairway  and  across  the 
hall  bridge.  But  it  was  as  the  woman  had  said.  There, 
on  his  little  white  bed,  lay  the  child  ;  he  would  be 
troublesome  no  more  on  this  earth;  he  was  quiet  at 
last.  Mrs.  Lenox  stood  in  the  lighted  doorway  of  her 
room  as  they  came  towards  her.  When  she  saw  that 
her  husband  was  not  with  them,  when  they  began  hur- 
riedly to  explain  that  he  had  not  come,  that  he  had 
stayed  behind,  that  he  had  sent  a  note,  she  swayed 
over  without  a  word  and  fainted  away. 

It  was  only  over-fatigue,  she  explained  later.  The 
child  had  lain  in  her  arms  for  thirty  hours,  most  of  the 
time  in  great  pain,  and  she  had  suffered  with  him. 
She  soon  recovered  consciousness  and  was  quite  calm 
— more  calm  than  they  had  feared  she  would  be.  They 
were  anxiously  watchful ;  they  tended  her  with  the 
most  devoted  care.  Blake  did  what  he  could,  and  then 
waited.  After  a  while,  when  Mrs.  Lenox  had  in  a  meas- 
ure recovered,  he  softly  beckoned  Mrs.  Marcy  out. 

"  You  must  tell  her  that  her  husband  will   not  be 


260  IX    VENICE 

back  in  time  for — that  he  will  not  be  back  for  at  least 
six  days,  and  very  likely  longer.  And  as  his  route 
was  quite  uncertain,  we  cannot  reach  him  ;  there  is 
no  telegraph,  of  course,  and  even  if  I  were  to  go 
after  him  I  could  only  follow  his  track  from  village 
to  village,  and  probably  come  back  to  Venice  behind 
him." 

"  How  can  I  tell  her  !"  said  the  tearful  lady.  "  Per- 
haps Claudia — " 

"  No,  on  no  account.  You  are  the  one,  and  you 
must  do  it,"  replied  Blake,  and  with  so  much  decision 
that  she  obeyed  him.  Thus  the  wife  was  told. 

What  Blake  had  said  was  true  ;  it  was  hopeless  to 
try  to  reach  Lenox  before  the  time  when  he  would 
probably  be  back  of  his  own  accord.  He  had  started 
on  a  hunt  after  some  early  drawings  of  Titian's,  of 
which  they  had  unearthed  dim  legends.  One  was  said 
to  be  in  an  old  monastery,  among  others  of  no  impor- 
tance ;  two  more  were  vaguely  reported  as  now  here, 
now  there.  Lenox  had  not  been  certain  of  his  own 
route,  but  expected  to  be  guided  from  village  to  vil- 
lage according  to  indications.  It  was  not  even  certain 
whether  he  would  come  back  by  Conegliano  or  strike 
the  railway  at  another  point.  "  It  certainly  is  an  in- 
exorable fate  !"  exclaimed  poor  Mrs.  Marcy,  in  the 
emergency  driven  to  unusual  expressions. 

But  when  Stephen  Lenox's  wife  understood  the  po- 
sition in  which  she  was  placed,  she  at  once  decided 
upon  all  that  was  to  be  done,  and  gave  her  directions 
clearly  and  calmly — directions  which  Blake  executed 
with  an  attention  and  thoughtful  care  as  complete  as 
any  one  could  possibly  have  bestowed. 

The  little  boy  was  to  be  buried  at  Venice,  in  the 


IN   VENICE  261 

cemetery  on  the  island  opposite,  early  in  the  morning 
of  the  second  day. 

"  She  is  so  sensible  !"  Mrs.  Marcy  commented,  ad- 
miringly. "  Of  course,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
it  is  the  thing  to  do.  But  so  many  women  would  have 
insisted  upon — all  sorts  of  plans  ;  and  it  would  have 
been  so  hard." 

"  I  would  willingly  carry  out  anything  she  wished 
for,  no  matter  how  difficult,"  replied  Blake.  "  I  great- 
ly respect  and  admire  Mrs.  Lenox.  But,  as  you  say, 
the  perfect  balance  of  her  character,  her  clear  judg- 
ment and  beautiful  goodness,  have  at  once  decided 
upon  the  best  course."  (The  lily  had  not  quite  said 
this  ;  but  in  her  present  state  of  distressed  sympathy 
she  accepted  it.) 

Claudia,  meanwhile,  remained  through  all  very  si- 
lent. She  assisted,  and  ably,  in  everything  that  was 
done,  but  said  almost  nothing. 

The  evening  before  the  funeral  the  two  ladies  went 
across  to  Mrs.  Lenox's  rooms ;  they  had  left  her  some 
hours  before,  as  she  had  promised  to  lie  down  for  a 
while,  but  they  thought  that  she  was  now  probably 
awake  again.  They  found  her  sitting  beside  the  little 
white-shrouded  form. 

"  Now  this  is  not  wise,  Elizabeth,"  began  Mrs.  Marcy, 
chidingly. 

"  I  think  it  is ;  I  like  to  look  at  him,"  replied  the 
watcher.  "  See,  the  peaceful  expression  I  have  been 
hoping  for  has  come  ;  it  is  not  often  needed  on  the  face 
of  a  child,  but  it  was  with  my  poor  little  boy.  Look." 

And,  sure  enough,  there  shone  upon  the  small,  still 
countenance  a  lovely  sweetness  which  had  never  been 
there  in  life.  The  face  did  not  even  seem  thin  ;  its 


262  IN    VENICE 

lines  bad  all  passed  away  ;  it  looked  very  fair  and 
young,  and  very  peacefully  at  rest. 

"His  mother  would  know  him  now  at  once  ;  he  was 
a  very  pretty  little  fellow  the  last  time  she  saw  him, 
when  he  was  about  a  year  old,"  she  went  on.  "  I  was 
very  fond  of  his  mother,  and  his  father,  as  probably 
you  know,  was  my  only  brother.  Their  child  was  very 
dear  to  me,"  she  resumed,  after  a  short  silence,  which 
the  others  did  not  break.  "  His  constant  suffering 
made  him  unlike  stronger,  happier  children,  and  I  think 
that  was  the  very  reason  I  loved  him  the  more.  I 
wanted  to  make  it  up  to  him.  But  I  could  not.  I 
suppose  he  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  entirely  with- 
out pain — the  doctors  have  told  me  so.  He  did  not 
know  anything  else,  or  any  other  way,  but  to  suffer 
more  or  less,  and  to  be  tired  all  the  time.  And  he  was 
so  used  to  it,  poor  little  fellow,  that  I  suppose  he 
thought  that  every  one  suffered  too — that  that  was 
life.  He  has  found  a  better  now."  Leaning  forward, 
she  took  the  small  hands  in  hers.  "  All  my  loving 
care,  dear  child,  was  not  enougli  to  keep  you  here,"  she 
said,  smoothing  them  tenderly.  "But  you  are  with 
your  mother  now  ;  that  is  far  better." 

The  funeral  took  place  early  the  next  morning.  Then 
Mrs.  Lenox  came  back  to  her  empty  rooms,  and  entered 
them  alone.  She  preferred  it  so. 

After  the  first  explanation,  the  only  allusion  she  had 
made  to  her  husband's  absence  was  to  Rodney  Blake. 
That  gentleman  had  not  expressed  the  shadow  of  a  dis- 
approbation. He  had  not  told  her  that  he  had  objected 
to  Lenox's  lengthened  absence,  and  had  done  what  he 
could  to  prevent  it ;  he  had  stopped  Mrs.  Marcy  sharp- 
ly when  she  spoke  of  telling. 


IN   VENICE  263 

"  Can't  you  see,  Sophy,  that  that  would  be  the  worst 
of  all  for  her  ?"  he  said  ;  "  to  know  that  Lenox  would 
go,  in  spite  of  my  unconcealed  opposition,  just  because 
Clau — just  because  he  wanted  those  trivial  drawings," 
he  added,  changing  the  termination  of  his  sentence,  but 
quite  sure,  meanwhile,  that  "  Sophy  "  would  never  dis- 
cover what  he  had  begun  to  say. 

Mrs.  Lenox's  remark  was  this.  Blake  had  come  in 
to  speak  to  her  about  some  necessary  directions  con- 
cerning the  funeral,  and  when  she  had  given  them  she 
said  :  "  It  will  be  a  grief  to  Stephen  when  he  comes 
back  that  he  could  not  have  seen  the  little  boy,  even  if 
but  for  once  more.  And  I  hoped  so  that  he  would  see 
him  !  I  expected  you  back  at  eight — you  know  that 
was  the  first  arrangement  —  and  towards  seven  he 
seemed  easier.  Once  he  even  smiled,  and  talked  a  little 
about  that  legend  of  St.  Mark  and  St.  Theodore,  of 
which,  you  remember,  he  was  so  fond.  Then  it  was 
half-past  seven,  and  I  still  hoped.  And  then  it  grew 
towards  eight,  and  he  was  in  pain  again.  Still  I  kept 
listening  for  the  sound  of  your  gondola.  But  it  did  not 
come.  And  at  half-past  eight  he  died.  But  perhaps 
it  was  as  well  so,"  she  continued,  although  her  voice 
trembled  a  little.  "  Stephen  would  have  felt  his  suffer- 
ing so  much.  I  was  more  used  to  it,  you  know,  than 
he  was." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Blake. 

But  she  seemed  to  know  that  he  was  not  quite  in  ac- 
cord with  her.  "  Of  course  I  feel  it  very  deeply,  Mr. 
Blake,  on  my  own  account,  that  my  husband  is  not  here ; 
I  depend  upon  him  for  everything,  and  feel  utterly  lone- 
ly without  him.  But  his  absence  is  one  of  those  acci- 
dents which  we  must  all  encounter  sometimes,  and  as 


264  IN   VENICE 

to  everything  else — the  outside  help  I  needed — yoa 
have  done  all  that  even  he  could  have  done.  You 
have  been  very  good  to  me,"  and  she  held  out  lier 
hand. 

Blake  took  it,  and  thanked  her.  And  in  his  words 
this  time  he  put  something  that  contented  her.  It  was 
the  sacrifice  he  made  to  his  liking  for  Stephen  Lenox's 
wife. 

The  evening  after  the  funeral  Mrs.  Marcy,  who  had 
been  made  nervous  and  ill  by  all  that  had  happened, 
went  out  at  sunset  for  a  change  of  air,  and  Blake  ac- 
companied her.  Claudia  preferred  to  stay  at  home. 
But  five  minutes  after  the  departure  of  their  gondola 
she  went  up  the  stairs  and  across  the  hall  bridge  that 
led  to  Mrs.  Lenox's  apartment.  Mrs.  Lenox  was  there, 
lying  on  the  sofa.  It  was  the  first  time  since  the  re- 
turn that  the  two  had  been  alone  together.  She  looked 
pale  and  ill,  and  there  were  dark  shadows  under  her 
eyes ;  but  she  smiled  and  spoke  in  her  usual  voice,  ask- 
ing Claudia  to  sit  beside  her  in  an  easy-chair  that  stood 
there.  Claudia  sat  down,  and  they  spoke  on  one  or 
two  unimportant  subjects.  But  the  girl  soon  paused 
in  this. 

"  I  have  come  to  say,"  she  began  again,  in  a  voice 
that  showed  the  effort  she  made  to  keep  it  calm,  "  that 
I  shall  never  forgive  myself,  Mrs.  Lenox,  for — for  a 
great  deal  that  I  have  thought  about  you,  but  especially 
for  having  had  a  part  in  the  absence  of  your  hus- 
band at  such  a  time.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me  he 
would  not  have  gone  off  on  that  foolish  expedition. 
But  I  wanted  those  miserable  drawings,  or  at  least 
sketches  of  them,  and  so  I  kept  talking  about  it. 
When  1  think  of  what  you  have  had  to  go  through, 


IN    VENICE  265 

alone,  in  consequence  of  it,  I  am  overwhelmed."  Here 
her  voice  nearly  broke  down. 

"You  must  not  take  it  all  upon  yourself,  Miss  Mar- 
cy,"  answered  the  wife.  "  No  doubt  Stephen  wanted 
to  please  you ;  no  doubt  he  wanted  to  very  much — to 
get  you  the  drawings,  if  it  was  possible ;  of  that  I  am 
<  quite  sure." 

But  Claudia  was  not  quieted.  "  If  you  knew  how  I 
have  suffered — how  I  suffer  now  as  I  see  you  lying 
there  so  pale  and  ill " — here  she  stopped  again.  "  I 
come  to  tell  you  how  I  feel  your  suffering,  and  I  spend 
the  time  talking  about  my  own,"  she  added,  abruptly. 
"  I  am  a  worthless  creature  !"  And  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  Lenox  put  out  her  hand  and  stroked  the  beau- 
tiful bowed  head  caressingly.  "  Do  not  feel  so  badly," 
she  said.  "  You  must  not ;  it  is  not  necessary." 

"  But  it  is — it  is,"  said  the  girl,  amid  her  tears.  "  If 
you  knew — " 

"  I  do  know,  Claudia.     I  know  yoM." 

"  Oh,  if  you  really  do,"  said  Claudia,  lifting  her 
head,  her  wet  eyes  turned  eagerly  upon  the  wife,  "then 
it  is  better." 

"  It  is  better ;  it  is  well.  My  dear,  I  think  I  have 
understood  you  all  along." 

"  But — I  have  not  understood  myself,"  replied  Clau- 
dia. She  had  nerved  herself  to  say  it;  but  after  it  was 
spoken  a  deep  blush  rose  slowly  over  her  whole  face 
until  it  was  in  a  flame.  Through  all  its  heat,  however, 
she  kept  her  eyes  bravely  upon  those  of  the  wife. 

"  That  I  knew,  too,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Lenox.  "  But  I 
also  knew  that  there  was  no  danger,"  she  added. 

"  There  was  not.     It  was  unconscious.    In  any  case, 


266  IX    VENICE 

I  should  in  time  li.-ive  recognized  it.  And  destroyed  it, 
as  I  do  now."  These  short  sentences  were  brought  out, 
each  with  a  fresh  effort.  "  I  do  not  speak  of — of  the 
other  side,"  the  girl  went  on,  with  abrupt,  heavy  awk- 
wardness of  phrase.  "  There  never  was  any  other  side 
— it  was  all  mine."  And  then  came  the  flaming  blush 
again. 

"But  you  are  very  beautiful,  Claudia?''  said  the  oth- 
er woman,  not  as  if  disturbed  at  all  in  her  own  quiet 
calm,  but  half  tentatively. 

"  Yes,  1  am  beautiful,"  replied  Claudia,  with  a  sort 
of  scorn.  "  But  he  is  not  that  kind  of  man,"  she  add- 
ed, a  quick,  involuntary  pride  coming  into  her  eyes. 
Then  she  turned  her  head  away,  shading  her  face  with 
her  hand.  She  said  no  more ;  it  seemed  as  if  she  had 
stopped  herself  shortly  there. 

After  a  moment  or  two  Mrs.  Lenox  began  to  speak. 
"  All  this  life,  here  in  Venice,  has  been  so  much  to 
Stephen,"  she  said,  in  her  sweet,  quiet  voice.  "You 
know  he  has  worked  very  hard — he  was  obliged  to ; 
just  so  many  hours  of  each  long  day,  for  long,  hard 
years.  He  never  had  any  rest ;  and  the  work  was  al- 
ways distasteful  to  him,  too.  It  was  a  slavery.  And 
it  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  him  ;  he  could  not  have 
kept  it  up  without  being  worn  out  both  in  body  and 
mind.  Judge,  then,  how  glad  I  am  that  he  has  had  all 
this  change  and  pleasure — he  needed  it  so  !  There  is 
that  side  to  his  nature — a  love  of  the  beautiful,  and  a 
strong  one.  This  has  been  always  repressed  and  bound 
down  ;  it  is  natural  that  it  should  break  forth  here.  I 
have  not  the  feeling  myself — at  least,  not  like  his ;  but 
I  understand  it  in  him,  and  sympathize  with  it  fully." 
She  paused.  Claudia  did  not  speak. 


IN    VENICE  267 

"  You  have  not  been  a  wife,  Claudia,  and  therefore 
there  are  some  things  you  do  not  know,"  pursued  the 
voice.  "  A  wife  becomes  in  time  to  her  husband  such 
a  part  of  himself  (that  is,  if  he  loves  her)  that  she  isn't 
a  separate  person  to  him  any  more,  and  he  hardly  thinks 
of  her  as  one ;  she  is  himself.  Many  things  become  a 
matter  of  course  to  him — are  taken  for  granted — on 
this  very  account.  It  does  not  occur  to  him  that  she 
may  feel  differently.  lie  supposes  that  they  feel  alike. 
Often  they  do.  Still,  a  woman's  thoughts  do  not  al- 
ways run  in  the  same  channel  as  those  of  a  man ;  we 
are  more  timid,  more  limited,  more — afraid  of  things, 
you  know  ;  but  the  husband  does  not  always  remember 
that.  But  there  are  some  things  in  which  a  husband 
and  wife  do  feel  alike,  always  and  forever ;  there  are 
ties  which  are  eternal.  And  my  own  life  holds  them — 
ties  and  memories  so  precious  that  I  can  hardly  explain 
them  to  you ;  memories  of  those  early  years  of  ours 
when  we  were  so  alone  and  poor,  but  so  dear  to  each 
other  that  we  'did  not  mind  it.  AVe  love  each  other 
just  the  same;  but  then  we  had  nothing  but  our  love 
— and  it  was  enough.  The  coming,  the  short  stay  with 
us,  and  the  fading  away  of  our  two  little  children, 
Claudia — these  are  ties  deep  down  in  our  hearts  which 
nothing  can  ever  sunder.  Stephen  will  go  back  to  all 
that  old  grief  of  his  when  he  comes  home  to  find  the 
little  boy  gone.  For  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life, 
one  he  has  never  at  heart  overcome,  was  that  he  felt 
when  we  lost  our  own  little  boy.  Stephen  had  loved 
the  child  passionately,  and  would  not  believe  that  he 
must  go ;  and  when  he  did  he  bowed  his  head  in  a 
silence  so  long  that  I  was  frightened.  I  had  never 
seen  him  give  up  before.  But  even  that  is  a  dear  tie 


268  IX    VENICE 

between  us,  for  then  lie  had  only  me.  Those  early 
years  of  ours,  with  their  joys  and  sorrows  —  I  often 
think  of  them.  A  man  does  not  dwell  upon  such 
memories,  one  by  one,  as  a  woman  does.  But  they  are 
none  the  less  there,  a  part  of  his  life  and  of  him." 
She  stopped.  "  Do  not  mind,"  she  added,  in  a  changed 
voice.  "  I  am  only — a  little  tired,  I  think." 

Claudia,  who  had  not  moved,  turned  quickly.  Mrs. 
Lenox's  eves  were  closed ;  she  was  very  pale.  But  she 
did  not  faint ;  owing  to  Claudia's  quick,  efficient  help, 
she  was  soon  herself  again.  "  You  know  what  to  do, 
don't  you  ?"  she  said,  smiling,  when  the  faint  feeling 
had  passed. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  know,  so  much  as  that  I  long  to 
help  you,"  answered  Claudia.  "  I  wish  you  would  let 
me  unbraid  your  hair,  and  make  you  ready  for  bed ; 
you  look  so  tired,  and  perhaps  I  could  do  it  with  a 
lighter  touch  than  Bianca,"  she  added,  humbly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  other,  assentingly. 

And  with  much  care  and  skill  the  girl  performed 
her  task.  "  I  will  even  put  out  the  light,"  she  said. 
"  I  will  tell  Bianca  that  you  have  gone  to  bed,  and  are 
not  to  be  disturbed."  When  all  was  done  and  the 
light  out,  she  paused  for  a  moment  by  the  bedside. 
"  I  am  not  going  to  talk  any  more,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
will  just  say  this:  aunt  and  I  are  going  away.  To- 
morrow, probably,  or  the  day  after.  You  will  not  be 
left  alone,  for  Mr.  Blake  will  stay." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Lenox's  voice  said  : 
"  That  is  a  mistake.  It  would  be  better  to  stay." 

"  I  do  not  sec  it  in  that  way,"  answered  the  girl. 
Then, "  You  must  not  ask  too  much,"  she  added,  in  a 
lower  voice. 


IX    VENICE  269 

Mrs.  Lenox  took  her  hands,  which  were  hanging  be- 
fore her,  tightly  clasped.  The  touch  shook  Claudia ; 
she  sank  down  beside  the  bed  and  hid  her  face. 

"  Stay  j  it  is  far  better,"  whispered  the  wife.  "  Then 
it  will  be  over.  By  going  away  you  will  only  think 
about  it  the  more." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     But—" 

"  I  will  answer  for  all.  I  know  you  better  than — 
you  know  yourself.  "When  you  see  us  together,  it  will 
be  different  to  you.  Stay,  to  please  me." 

"Very  well,"  murmured  the  girl. 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  she  rose.  When  she 
had  reached  the  door  Mrs.  Lenox  spoke  again.  "  Of 
course,  you  know  that  I  quite  understand  that  it  is 
only  a  girl's  fancy,"  she  said,  with  a  tender  lightness. 
This  was  her  offering  to  Claudia. 

On  the  evening  of  the  seventh  day  after  the  funeral 
Stephen  Lenox  came  back;  he  had  sent  a  despatch  to 
his  wife  from  Conegliano,  and  Blake  was  therefore  able 
to  meet  him  at  Mestre,  and  tell  him  what  had  happened. 
He  went  directly  home,  and  the  others  did  not  see  him 
until  the  next  evening.  Then  he  came  across  to  the 
larger  palace.  Blake  was  there  ;  he  kept  himself  rather 
constantly  with  Mrs.  Marcy  now,  perhaps  to  direct  that 
lady's  somewhat  wandering  inspirations.  For  this  oc- 
casion he  had  warned  her  that  she  must  not  be  too 
sympathetic,  that  she  must  be  on  her  guard.  So  Mrs. 
Marcy  was  "  on  her  guard ;"  she  only  took  out  her 
handkerchief  four  times ;  she  even  talked  of  the 
weather.  Claudia  scarcely  spoke.  Blake  himself  con- 
ducted the  conversation,  and  filled  all  the  gaps.  They 
could  naturally  say  a  good  deal  about  the  health  of 
Mrs.  Lenox,  as  that  lady  had  been  obliged  to  keep  her 


270  IN    VENICE 

room  for  the  three  preceding  days.  Lenox  did  not 
stay  long ;  he  said  he  must  go  back  to  his  wife.  As 
he  rose  he  gave  the  small  portfolio  he  had  brought 
with  him  to  Claudia.  "  I  don't  think  they  were  Ti- 
tians,"  he  said.  "  But  I  sketched  them  for  you  as  well 
as  I  could." 

Mrs.  Marcy  thought  this  an  opportunity ;  she  took 
the  portfolio,  and  exclaimed  over  each  picture.  Blake, 
too,  put  up  his  eye-glass  to  look  at  them.  Lenox  said 
a  word  or  two  about  them  and  waited  a  moment  long- 
er ;  then  he  went  away.  Claudia  had  not  glanced  at 
them. 

He  never  knew  of  her  visit  to  his  wife;  those  are 
the  secrets  women  keep  for  each  other,  unto  and  be- 
yond the  grave. 

What  passed  when  he  came  home  was  simple  enough. 
His  wife  cried  when  she  saw  him ;  she  had  not  cried 
before.  She  told  him  the  history  of  the  little  boy's 
last  hours,  and  of  all  he  had  said,  and  of  the  funeral. 
Then  .they  had  talked  a  while  of  her  health,  and  then 
of  future  plans. 

"  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  you  were  anxious 
about  him  even  before  I  went  away,"  said  Lenox,  going 
back  abruptly  to  the  first  subject.  He  was  standing  by 
the  window,  looking  out ;  this  was  an  hour  after  his 
return. 

"  But  he  had  been  ill  so  many  times.  No,  it  was 
something  we  could  not  foresee,  and  as  such  we  must 
accept  it.  I  wanted  you  to  go — don't  you  remember  ? 
I  urged  your  going.  You  must  not  blame  yourself 
about  it." 

"  But  I  do,"  answered  her  husband. 

"  I  cannot  allow  you  to ;  I  shall  never  allow  it.     To 


IN    VENICE  271 

me,  Stephen,  all  you  do  is  right ;  I  wish  to  hear  noth- 
ing that  could  even  seem  otherwise.  I  trust  you  en- 
tirely, and  always  shall." 

He  turned.  She  was  lying  back  in  an  easy-chair, 
supported  by  pillows.  He  came  across  and  sat  down 
beside  her,  his  head  bent  forward,  his  elbows  resting 
on  his  knees,  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  did  not  speak. 

"  Because  I  know  that  I  can,"  added  the  wife. 

That  was  all. 

They  stayed  on  together  in  Venice  through  another 
two  weeks.  Mrs.  Lenox  improved  daily,  and  was  soon 
able  to  go  about  with  them.  She  seemed,  indeed,  to 
bloom  into  a  new  youth.  "  It  is  the  reaction  after  the 
long,  wearing  care  of  that  child,"  explained  Mrs.  Marcy. 
"  And  isn't  it  beautiful  to  see  how  devoted  he  is  to  her, 
and  how  careful  of  her  in  every  way  ?  But  I  have  al- 
ways noticed  what  a  devoted  husband  he  was,  haven't 
you  ?" 

These  two  ladies  and  Mr.  Blake  were  going  to  Baden- 
Baden.  But  the  others  were  going  back  to  America. 
"  We  may  return  some  time,"  said  Lenox ;  "  but  at 
present  I  think  we  want  a  home." 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  stayed  on  together  always, 
just  as  we  are  now,"  sighed  the  sentimental  lily, 
smoothing  the  embroidered  edge  of  her  handkerchief. 
"  Such  a  pleasant  party,  and  of  just  the  right  size ; 
these  last  two  weeks  have  been  so  perfect !" 

The  time  for  parting  came.  The  three  who  were  go- 
ing to  Baden-Baden  were  to  leave  at  dawn,  and  they 
had  come  across  to  Mrs.  Lenox's  parlor  to  spend  a  last 
hour.  Claudia  talked  more  than  usual,  and  talked  well ; 
she  looked  brilliant. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  hour  the  good-byes  began 


272  IX    VENICE 

in  earnest.  Everything  that  was  appropriate  was  said, 
Blake,  in  particular,  delivering  himself  unblushingly  of 
one  long  fluent  commonplace  after  another.  They  were 
to  meet  again — oh,  very  soon  ;  they  were  to  visit  each 
other ;  they  were  to  write  frequently — one  would  have 
supposed,  indeed,  that  Blake  intended  to- send  a  daily 
telegraphic  despatch.  At  last  the  lily,  having  kept 
them  all  standing  for  twenty  minutes,  bestowed  upon 
Mrs.  Lenox  a  final  kiss,  and  really  did  start,  the  two 
gentlemen  and  Claudia  accompanying  her  down  the 
long  hall.  But  the  hall  was  dark,  and  Claudia  was  be- 
hind ;  without  the  knowledge  of  the  others  she  slipped 
back. 

Mrs.  Lenox  was  standing  where  they  had  left  her. 
When  she  saw  the  girl  returning,  pale,  repressed,  all 
the  sparkle  gone,  she  went  to  her,  and  put  her  arms 
round  her ;  Claudia  laid  her  head  down  upon  the  other's 
shoulder.  Thus  they  stood  for  several  moments  in 
silence.  Then,  still  without  speaking,  Claudia  went 
away. 

When  Mrs.  Marcy  reached  the  stairway  which  led 
down  to  her  own  apartment,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hall  bridge,  "  Why,  where  is  Claudia?"  she  said. 

"  Here  I  am,"  said  her  niece,  appearing  from  the 
darkness. 

"  You  will  come  down  with  us  for  a  moment,  won't 
you,  Mr.  Lenox?"  suggested  the  lily.  "Just  for  one 
last  look  ?" 

"  Do  not  ask  him,"  said  Claudia,  smiling ;  "  he  is  worn 
out !  We  have  already  extended  that  look  over  two 
long  hours.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Lenox ;  and  this  time,  I 
think,  is  really  the  last." 


BY  CONSTANCE  F.  WOOLSON. 


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There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing 
which  invests  all  her  characters  with  lovable  qualities. — Jewish  Advo- 
cate, N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolson  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting 
magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  the  de- 
lineation of  her  heroines  no  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of 
local  life. — Jewish  Messenger,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist  lau- 
reate.—Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style, 
and  conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  development 
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novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly-loaded  vein  which,  so  far,  is  all 
her  own  ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sen- 
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task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
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the  day — a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  time. — Whitehall 
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WILLIAM  BLACK'S   NOVELS 


LIBRARY  EDITION 

Mr.  Black  knows  so  well  just  what  to  describe,  and  to  what 
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STAND  FAST,  CRAIG  -ROYS- 
TON!  lllusti-aied, 

SUNRISE. 

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Illustrated. 

THE  MAGIC  INK,  AND  OTH- 
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OF  A  HOUSE-BOAT.  Ill'd. 

THE  STRANGE  ADVENTURES 
OF  A  PHAETON. 

THREE  FEATHERS. 

WHITE  HEATHER. 

WHITE  WINGS.    Illustrated. 

YOLANDE.    Illustrated. 


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A  ••••"•'•MI  inn  inn  urn  i 

000  097  954 


' 


